Tobias Tarakan - Spectral Detective

"For your last taste of a woman, I thought you would prefer if I dressed for the occasion. Black is such a sexy, funereal colour, don't you agree Mr. Tarakan?" As she spoke her fingers moved down across her sex, teasing the pouting folds of flesh with her long red fingernails. Unable to move, I sat rigid with appreciation. She dropped to her knees, and coolly cut away my boxers before cupping my balls in her small hands.

"I don't think you will fail me, but best to be safe." She pulled a cock ring from her corset top, and roughly fed my cock and balls through the hoop. I winced.

"Enjoy, Mr. Tarakan...You won't be here much longer." She fell on my cock, hungrily licking and slurping. I groaned, jumping each time her tongue stud ground against my helmet. She drew back giving me a salacious grin.

"This will cool you down, Mr. Tarakan." She put two ice cubes into her mouth and sank back on my cock.

"Fuck!" I yelled as the cold hit me.

She sucked and teased my cock for a good five minutes before withdrawing. "Mmm...that will do nicely, Mr. Tarakan."

My angel stood up, and in one fluid movement gripped the base of my swollen cock in one hand and sat down, impaling herself.

"Oh Christ!" I groaned, as her sucking warmth enwrapped me. Instinctively I thrust my hips upward. This made her squeal with surprise, and brought the riding crop hard across my face. Blood trickled into my mouth.

"No, Mr. Tarakan! This is my moment of history." She wasn't moving, but her cunt was dancing a farandole along my cock.

"How?" I groaned. She looked at me—damn those eyes!

"I practice everyday with a very long and obliging friend. Now, Mr. Tarakan..."

She emphasized each syllable with a suffocating squeeze of her cunt muscles. Mewling softly, she gripped my shoulders and glissaded up and down my cock, rasping her pubic bone hard against mine. The suckling grip of her vagina sent drove me wild. I thought of cold vacations, old ladies, hospitals, anything to get my mind off the angel bouncing atop my cock, but it was hopeless. I closed my eyes.

Fuelled by the drug, my imagination started working overtime. The hotel room was gone. I pictured us both in pouring rain behind the bar in an alley. I held her pinned and impaled against a wall, her nylon sheathed legs locked tightly behind my back. My hands roamed freely over her luscious flesh and I was goring her repeatedly, each thrust met with the raucous scream of an alley cat in heat. I may have been daydreaming, but I was in control, and enjoying fucking her senseless.

"Mr. Tarakan, look at me." A hard slap across the face brought me back to the hotel room, and straight into those blue, hypnotic eyes.

"Oh, Mr. Tarakan, you think you can fuck me do you?" She shuddered as she rose and fell, her quickening pace left us both gasping for breath. "Mr. Tara..." Her eyes closed, and she fell on my shoulder. "Oh, God!" She screamed, "I am...coming!" Grabbing my neck, she pounded harder against my thighs, the sharp metal of her suspenders cutting tramlines into my legs. As each spasm wracked her body she clung to me, writhing and twisting. Then, her head snapped back as an orgasm tore through her, and she ululated like a stuck pig.

Fuck hospitals, I thought, as her clenching sheath catapulted me head long over the precipice and I gave in, spurting everything I had, high into her womb.

"Now, Mr. Tarakan!" she shrieked, "your moment of infamy!" I saw the stiletto dagger above her head. Unable to move, I closed my eyes. Instead of pain, I heard the sound of breaking glass. I opened my eyes to see my angel covered in blood and sliding unconscious to the floor.

"Guess you need yourself a new lap dance partner." Bogey's voice filtered through the blizzard inside my head. I looked up. Prima stood over my angel, splayed out on the floor. The neck of a vodka bottle in his hand.

"How...How did you find me?" I spluttered, covered in blood and vodka.

"There was more on the DVD so I called you. You put the phone down, so I called your apartment phone—she had left a message with directions on your answering machine." Like a hunter admiring his prize, Prema deftly rolled the unconscious angel onto her back.

"But I changed the code on the machine?"

"I am Premagenev," he growled scornfully, "The great Russian hacker!"

I looked at Prema and smiled. "We really do need to talk."

She had played me for the putz I was. Her congressman husband had divorced her and left her penniless, so she killed him. There was no haunting. She'd done her homework, and knew all my peccadilloes. She knew I'd bite at the mention of anything spectral, so she proffered herself to me. Dam I bit hard. If it were not for the deranged, dysfunctional Russian, I would have been the seventh Private Dick headlining the morning paper. I called Stalker and filled him in on the night's events.

"Hey, Joe! Bourbon, with a twist of lemon...Make this one a triple!"