The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #01

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She looked at the sperm a long moment, then looked up at me and said, "You're cum tastes good." She sounded surprised. "Really good, actually."

"I've heard that," I told her, and that was the truth.

Then she sucked the last little bit from her finger and sat up, at which point I was pulling into the driveway of my house. We did zero-to-sixty from the car to the front door, and immediately I led her into my bedroom, practically devouring her as we went. Our hands and mouths were all over each other; in the end, we settled my clothing situation by me stripping off my jacket and her tugging on my jeans.

Courtney was all fired up again, scrambling to get me naked, begging for another taste, and once my cock popped out she fell to her knees and was all over it, licking and slurping. It was like she couldn't get it in her mouth fast enough. Feeling the warm mouth suckle my cock yet again, I decided I simply could not wait to bury myself somewhere else. I grabbed her by the waist and lifted, and threw her bodily onto the bed.

"Clothes," I ordered. I was in charge, and we both knew it. As Courtney stripped, I hit the iPod stereo and set it to a soft reggae mix, the perfect score for fucking, in my opinion.

I turned back to the bed to find the girl almost completely naked, her legs splayed wide; she still wore her short white cheerleading skirt, which covered nothing and looked incredible. She was gazing hungrily at me, waiting. Her pussy was pink and puffy, and soaked. Her swath of brown pubic hair was trimmed into a cute little letter "V".

"Get your ass in the air," I told her, and she willingly complied. After all, the ass was what had gotten me to notice her in the first place, I might as well fuck her from behind first, right?

A moment later she was on her hands and knees, hair tousled and tossed about her head, and glanced back at me over her shoulder, over her sleek and sexy back, and over the rounded curve of her ass. Her eyes were like little daggers of lust and sexiness.

I went to her.

"UNNNNNNNHHHHH!" she groaned as I grabbed her by the hips and impaled her with my shaft. She was incredibly tight, but also incredibly wet, and I bottomed out instantly, my hips smashing into her ass.

That first hard thrust gave me the greatest pleasure, feeling the girl quiver beneath me as she squealed at the feel of seven thick inches invading her depths. I gave it to her, hard, everything I had from the very beginning, my strokes deep and long.

My hips slapped up against her over and over, sending thin little ripples down the taut flesh of her ass. My hands were like wild animals running over her body, down her back, around the front to palm her wonderfully pert breasts, all over her smooth well-tanned skin.

Mostly, though, I slapped and grabbed her ass as I pounded her, my favorite part of her body, and she moaned and gasped and whimpered with each ferocious thrust. The walls of her vagina sucked at me, tightly gripping my shaft, milking me, and every time I withdrew I could see some of her interiors come with me before I shoved them back deep inside her.

It was indescribable, truly fantastic.

Courtney wiggled and rocked and squirmed beneath my grasp, but I did not stop. I fucked her steady, letting her have it for a very long time, using her yielding, responsive body in every way I could imagine. We changed positions often and always at my suggestion: after I fucked her like a dog, slapping her ass, she rode me like a stallion, working her hips as I bounced her tits up and down in my palms; I flipped her onto her back and threw her legs over my shoulders, and bent her in half as I hammered home; and on and on it went.

Courtney never refused me, eagerly and enthusiastically complying with my every request, no matter how kinky, and she became more and more submissive as the night wore on. I groped her, fondled her, twisted her, curled her, and fucked her as I saw fit, and she begged for it.

Orgasm flowed into orgasm for her, and I lost count very early on how many she had. And in between every session, she would suckle gentle on my cock until I was ready to go again. I came four more times (four!) after that first time in the car: inside her pussy, across her breasts, in her face and hair, plus a fourth place.

It was after one o'clock when I saved the best for last, deciding it was the perfect time to try something new. I decided to fuck her ass, my first full-on intercourse anal experience, and who better to butt-fuck than a cheerleader (still in her skirt) with a perfect ass? She closed her eyes at my command to return to her hands and knees, knowing instinctually what was coming. Again, I do not think it was the first time someone had gone down that particular canal; she was far too willing to let me up there.

I slathered lubrication from a tube onto my shaft, and then her ass, pushing a finger past the tight ring of her anus. She mewed as I touched her, wiggled her hips just a bit from the sensations. When everything seemed ready, I placed the tip of my cock at the entrance to her rear passage and pushed forward, easing myself past the wrinkled pink skin of her back hole. Several inches buried into her ass on that first try, another indication that this was nothing new for her.

"AAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!" Courtney cried as her ass was penetrated.

I fucked her vigorously for as long as I could, taking as much pleasure as I could in my first foray inside a woman's rump, and it swiftly grew too much to bear. It was Courtney's sudden stillness, however, followed by a shriek and spastic convulsions as orgasm overtook her yet again, that sent me hurtling over the edge after her.

And with that, I was an anal addict for life.

I pulled my cock out, preferring to splash warm white jizz all over her undulating back as she continued to shriek and moan beneath me.

"Wow," I managed in-between ragged breaths.

Courtney smiled lazily and moaned as her legs buckled, then sprawled forward onto the mattress on her stomach. I slapped her roughly on the bottom (couldn't resist) and a red-hand print appeared above the already flushed and battered flesh. The toll was taken, and physically and mentally exhausted, I collapsed onto the bed next to her.

The next thing I knew the phone was ringing. Courtney was asleep next to me, naked and warm, cum caked onto her back as she slept soundly on her stomach. I murmured something into the receiver and the voice on the other end of the line instantly woke me up.

"Get up, Benjamin," Caroline said without greeting of any kind. "You're grunting for me tonight." Grunting was the term Caroline used to describe grunt work.

"Where are you?" I asked, and Courtney stirred beside me.

"Is someone on the phone?" she asked sleepily, and there was a long and silent moment on the other end of the line before Caroline asked, "Are you with someone right now?"

Honesty is always the best course. "Yes," I told her, "but it's ok, I'll be there as soon as I can."

Another silence. "225 Ridge Water Drive, Santa Monica. And bring me coffee, hot and black," she added, and with that, hung up the phone.

I turned to Courtney. "I have to go somewhere, sweetness," I said. "Sleep tight, I'll be back before you wake up."

"M'kay," she murmured, and was asleep before her head hit the pillow.

And so, twenty minutes later, I found myself, weary but quite satisfied despite being very sore in the groin, pulling my black Range Rover up behind Caroline's black Mercedes SL 500 (dark cars are not as conspicuous, you see) with her coffee (hot and black) in tow.

I climbed into her passenger seat and was treated to an appraising stare, which I always seemed to come up on the lacking end of. She was dressed all in black: tight black spandex that went down to mid-thigh, a tight black shirt, black socks, and dark tennis shoes. Obviously, a little sneaking around was on the docket.

"I hope I didn't interrupt anything important," she said in her usual lofty manner.

I grinned. "No, we were done," I said, and her eyes widened with momentary outrage. She turned away and said nothing. "What's the story here?" I asked, trying to change the subject, and with Caroline, you always changed the subject to work. The girl lived for her job.

"Deadbeat dad skipped out on his ex-wife. She wants him located so the authorities can be brought in and force him to pay. Low stakes stuff, but we have to treat it the same way as we would a high-profile celebrity case: with honesty and integrity, and hard work. We're waiting for activity in Unit Three."

She pointed at an apartment complex across the street. Unit Three was downstairs in the southwest corner, and the door was plainly visible from the car. And so we sat there for over thirty minutes, and the whole time she was at best polite, at worst condescending in her haughty way as she explained some of the nuts and bolts of the business, much of which I already knew, but that she had to go over again to make absolutely sure I knew what I was doing.

When the car pulled up and two people got out, a man and a woman, and went into the right apartment, Caroline for the first time since I had known her appeared energized and excited. It was like a switch had been flipped; she was no longer an ice queen, but giddy and jazzed and anxious like she was about to play competitive sports. The job is what did it for her, I realized; thrilled her to the max, while the rest of the time she was just bored.

"Come on," she said, "we need pictures."

And so I followed her as she crept across the street, which was fine by me because I just kept my eyes trained on her spandex-clad ass the whole time, which was, amazingly, even better than the one I had just spent the majority of the night with.

We hopped a short fence and moved into some bushes just outside one of the windows that looked into the apartment, and when we peered inside, we were treated with quite the shock: the two were already naked and fucking like jackrabbits on the sofa.

"Christ," Caroline muttered in a low voice. She took out her camera and snapped a few photos.

"This type of thing happen often?" I asked. "Watching people have sex, I mean?"

Caroline turned to me and pursed her lips disapprovingly. "Sometimes," was all she said, then went back to her photography.

I grinned. "I've got déjà vu," I whispered.

It was meant as a joke, and a little bit of a risk given Caroline's penchant for seriousness and a not-so-slow-burning temper, but ultimately it was as if I hadn't said anything; she pretended like she didn't hear.

"Back to the car, grunt," she ordered, and back we went.

And that was, in a nutshell, my first night on the job, helping Caroline take photographs of some deadbeat dad. Not too shabby, in my opinion, since it meant spending time with her. While not an actual case of my own, it was a nice little intro into the actual actions of a private investigative detective.

I went to my house and crept into my room, and found Courtney right where I'd left her, still soundly sleeping. I crawled into bed and snuggled up next to her warmness, and fell asleep myself, and my last thought was of just how long I would eat her the next morning, and of how many times in the process I would imagine it was Caroline I was tasting.

Case File #002: The Case of the Bride-To-Be

Six weeks after my birthday, ten days after the deadbeat dad, my father pronounced me ready to try my hand at a case of my own. Beautiful Caroline had been instructing me incessantly, taking me with her to observe her on more assignments, grilling me non-stop on protocols and procedures, quizzing me with hypothetical situations to see how I would handle myself; you name the teaching method, and she employed it at some point.

Although way ahead of the normal curve at the outset (having grown up with my father and learned much by proximal osmosis), I have to admit she was very effective filling in specific details and gaps, not to mention good at setting a blistering pace. Life had basically stopped for me. It was study for school (easy) and study for Caroline (hard), and all other activities ground to a halt. Courtney called me twice wanting to get together, but I reluctantly took rain checks. It was hard, but I knew everything would be worth it in the end.

Which is why, when my father told me I was ready, I was so excited I jumped up and wrapped my arms around Caroline in a big bear hug, which she was completely not expecting and not altogether happy about. Instantly, I became aware of the way her fabulous breasts squished against me. I was also made aware (less instantly) of her great distaste for public displays of affection, as she jammed her palms square into my chest and shoved me away.

My father cautioned, "Now that you are a junior member of the team, however -- and I stress the junior part -- that doesn't mean you stop studying. You cannot know everything in a few weeks. You can't know everything in a few years. Hell, I myself still don't know everything."

The three of us were in the conference room of the Discretion offices in Beverly Hills, just off Santa Monica Boulevard. It was after school on a Tuesday.

"Caroline will continue to act as your handler," my father went on as we took seats at the conference table. Handler was what they called the person training you. "She will assist you on your cases, and I expect you to follow her recommendations when provided. Understood?"

My father, the boss, was far less friendly than my father, the father. I nodded obediently, and punctuated the sentiment with a word, "Completely."

"Good," he said, at which point, seemingly on cue, Veronica knocked on the glass door and entered with three files in her hand.

Women in the investigative field were all supremely attractive, or so it seemed to me, and Veronica Thompson was no different. The woman was an absolute knockout: high cheekbones, luscious red lips, enchanting brown eyes, shoulder-length light brown hair that cascaded off her head in waves, wafer-thin limbs, and generous curves in the right places. She was a sharp and conservative dresser, very business-like, and very good at her job.

"The Atkinson woman is here, Frank," she said as she set the files down on the conference table.

"Good," my father repeated, with new reason. He looked up at his first female pupil and smiled. "Are you off?"

She nodded. "My flight leaves at eight tonight." Veronica was working a hush-hush celebrity case based in Scottsdale, Arizona. The client was a big-ticket actress, but I had no idea what the details of the job were. "I'll update you on the situation and status tomorrow morning. The background work and profiles are on your desk."

My father nodded. "Have a safe trip," he said, and when she was gone, he turned his attention back to us. He passed me one of the files, handed the second to Caroline, and flipped the third copy open in his own hands.

"Jacquelyn Atkinson," he said, reading, "twenty-five years old. Engaged to be married to Bobby Phelps, twenty-eight, son of wealthy software tycoon Richard Phelps. The wedding is Saturday. The bride-to-be has doubts. We did some work for her father, Edward, a couple of years back. She called us and arranged today's meeting. Let's hear what she has to say."

It was clear from the moment she walked into the conference room: Jacquelyn Atkinson was a spoiled, pampered little princess. Much of this assessment was spurred by her appearance; she was dolled up in the immaculate sort of way reserved for very wealthy, very vain women. Every platinum blonde hair was in its proper place, every item of clothing in complete coordination -- bright yellow sun dress, large beige belt, beige designer clogs, and a ridiculously large white hat with yellow trim -- and every hint of makeup perfectly applied. Her breasts, mounds of flesh that jutted off her chest, were assuredly fake, and her cleavage was a perfect display of tasteful exposure. The rest of her body was tight and toned; personal chefs, nutritionists, and trainers tended to have that effect.

My father rose to his feet and Caroline and I followed suit. "Miss Atkinson," he said warmly, "so good to see you again. Please, have a seat."

The woman regarded the three of us as we all sat down again. She was clearly someone used to getting her way. She was also clearly someone used to setting the tone in any conversation.

"I do not have time for small talk," she said, her voice light and feminine. I was fully expecting her to say something about an important salon appointment, but she did not. "You did some work for my father and he spoke highly of your firm, and now it is I with need of your services."

"How can we help?" my father asked.

"You are aware of my impending wedding." It was not a question, but we all nodded. "You are also aware, I'm sure, of the groom and his family." More nods. "It will be an important union in more ways than one."

I struggled not to laugh. It sounded like she was talking about a business venture. Which, as it so happens, was exactly how she viewed it.

"Let me be frank with you," the woman said, leaning forward. "I do not love my fiancé, and it is unlikely that he loves me. He wants an undemanding wife and I want his money. It is a perfect arrangement."

"But . . ." my father said, guiding.

Jacquelyn smiled thinly. "But every arrangement has its sticking points. Mine happens to be infidelity. If I am to marry him and share his bed -- the one thing he does want from me, and often -- and do things with him that I do with no one else, I require that he remain completely faithful to me. He knows this; I have made it perfectly clear. He can have my body and no other."

The woman was definitely a ball-breaker.

"And you do not think he is keeping up his side of the bargain?" my father asked.

"No," she said coldly, and for a moment real anger flashed across her face, "I do not. I would like you to prove it and provide me with lots of visual evidence, both before and after the wedding. If Bobby is cheating on me, he and his family will pay through the nose."

My father nodded. "Very well," he said, "we can do that for you. Caroline and my son Benjamin here will be the associates handling this case for you. If you would come with me, we can discuss the terms of our contract in my office."

When the two were gone, Caroline turned to me with a cold smile and said, "Get to work, grunt."

And that is how my first case began, with a pissed-off rich chick. Of course, I would come to realize that the majority of our cases, no matter what directions they might lead us in, begin with pissed-off rich people.

* * *

It was Tuesday when Miss Atkinson met with us. The wedding was Saturday, but the rehearsal dinner was Thursday night and a large family party was Friday night, which meant there was very little time to act.

Detective work usually begins with research, whatever form and fashion it may take. These days, the world is tech-happy, and I got on the computer and dug up some information on Robert "Bobby" Phelps, heir to the Phelps software fortune. I already had the information Miss Atkinson provided us with addresses to all his primary points of contact (house, work, gym, social club, etc.), but every little bit helps.

Caroline walked up and stared over my shoulder as I read an archived article from the Times about Bobby's "hot bachelor" status. The article was two years old.

"No time for character background, grunt," she said after a moment. She was close enough that I could smell her citrus perfume, which was lovely. An image flashed suddenly before my eyes: Caroline in black spandex, creeping across the street, her ass looking spectacular as I followed behind. "You'd better find the guy, and quick, and tail him."