It was a beautiful may morning, sunny, not too hot, with a cooling breeze blowing in off the lake, but I couldn't enjoy it because I had my eyes closed. I had my eyes closed because I was enjoying something else: the sensation of a pair of big soft lips and a wet tongue slobbering all over my stiff prick.
It's our morning ritual. I come into the office about 8:30 every morning, and walk past the desk of my secretary/receptionist, Priscilla McCall, to my private suite. Priss rises and follows me in, locking the door behind her. She's usually wearing something low cut to show off the generous slope of her breasts, something high cut to emphasize the length of her curvaceous legs.
She leans against the door after locking it and murmurs, "Good morning, boss."
"Good morning, Priss. Any appointments in the next half-hour?" I ask.
"New client coming in at nine," she might reply, as she did this morning. She licks those aforementioned lips and smiles wickedly, the white of her teeth flashing in contrast to the glossy red lipstick, the deep ebony of her skin. Pushing herself away from the door, she approaches me slowly on stiletto heels.
"Then we have plenty of time, don't we?" I ask. My jacket is off by this time, draped around the back of the chair. I am still standing beside my desk, watching her approach. Her breasts, full and firm, sway slightly with the swing of her round hips.
She stops in front of me and presses her chest against mine, and reaches for my zipper. With those heels on, Priss and I can look each other directly in the eye.
The combined effect of watching her chocolate-colored body walk, and the thought of what she is about to do, has already made me hard, so she has a little trouble pulling my cock out of my pants. I assist her by unbuckling my belt and unbuttoning my waistband. My trousers fall to the floor, forgotten in a puddle around my ankles.
Priss's cool fingers wrap around my manhood, stroking and squeezing, and our lips meet in a deep kiss. My own fingers caress the flesh pillows exposed at the top of her blouse. I sit on the desktop and kiss my way down from her neck to those glorious twin globes, pulling her blouse up so I can appreciate them better.
She doesn't let me linger very long, however, for soon she is on her knees, the way she is now, on this beautiful morning, whispering huskily that I have the biggest cock she's ever seen on a white man, and begging for me to feed it to her. Of course I oblige – who am I to deny such a hard-working employee?
My name is Busy Walken – that's a nickname, the "Busy" part. I'm a licensed private investigator, a shamus, a sleuth. My mother, who was brought up reading Charles Dickens, thought Ebenezer Walken was a perfectly appropriate name. It was quickly shortened to "Beezer", and then, when in high school I earned a reputation with the girls, to the name that is painted on my door.
So as I started telling you, my eyes were closed as Priss engulfed my Johnson with her soft, wet mouth, and squeezed my nuts with one hand while she used the other to jerk me off.
I don't always close my eyes, of course. I love to watch my cock fucking her mouth, watch it disappear between her thick red lips and down her throat; then reappear, tinged with lipstick and wet with her saliva. And, of course, I love to watch my cum spurt thickly out and cover her greedy tongue, with not a small amount splashing onto her face and dripping down from her chin onto her ripe, black melons.
This was what was happening now, and I opened my eyes in time to see her pull her mouth about an inch away, the better to catch the jets of spunk that my intense orgasm produced.
Priss maneuvered the stray ribbons of white jizz from her dark cheeks into her mouth with a manicured finger and swallowed seductively, lifting her chin and massaging her throat with one hand. That which had landed on her tits was rubbed into her skin with the other hand. What a sight!
And this was the sort of thing that happened every morning before we officially started our business day.
On rare occasions Priss would let me, after the ritual blowjob, feel how wet her pussy had gotten while sucking me off. I would take my time with this, running a palm slowly up her magnificent legs, then gently parting her pussy lips with my middle finger, sinking it deep into her tight, sopping hole. Then she would pull away, composing herself for her return to the outside office, leaving me to suck my own middle finger and dream of the day she would allow me to take her completely.
This was not to be that day, however, and after she'd straightened her clothing and given me one last peck on the head of my pecker, she glanced at the clock and said, "Put yourself away, Boss, your client's going to be here soon."
I was put back together in no time, and a few moments later a soft knock came at the door, which opened immediately and revealed my first client of the day: a woman, Priss had told me beforehand, who was looking for her runaway daughter.
Rising to meet her, we exchanged pleasantries and I indicated a chair opposite my desk. As she sat, I quickly looked her over and found her to be, for somebody's mother, quite a beautiful woman, though she was trying hard to hide it. Blonde hair pulled severely back in a bun, scant makeup, wearing a high-button suit dress that attempted to mask her voluptuous frame, and low- heeled "sensible" shoes.
She couldn't mask her eyes, though, which were colored a deep amber, like those of a lioness.
These feline eyes bored into me now as we sat across the desk from each other. She appeared to be assessing me as well. I said nothing. Finally she inhaled sharply through her nostrils and glanced away. I figured I had passed whatever test she'd given me.
"What can I do for you this morning, Mrs. Chandler? My secretary said only that your daughter had run away."
"Yes, Mr. Walken," she replied briskly. She didn't look all that broken up about it, really. "I'd like you to find her, if you can."
"Well, I don't usually do runaway cases, ma'am. Have you tried the police?"
"Um, no," she hesitated. "I felt that the police wouldn't bother with it. You see, my daughter is twenty-five years old."
Twenty-five! This gorgeous creature in my office didn't look much more than twenty-five herself. Some quick mental math told me that if she'd given birth to her daughter at the age of 18, she'd be 43 now. The next thought that entered my head was, "good plastic surgeon".
As if reading my mind, Mrs. Chandler said, "I had Cherisse when I was twelve. An unfortunate story, the details of which I won't bore you with. I'm thirty-seven years old, Mr. Walken." Which was more like it, I guessed.
"No," I agreed, "the cops wouldn't bother. In fact, they'd probably laugh you out of the station house. But somehow," I continued, "I get the feeling that you want me to find more than your daughter."
The cat's eyes flashed for a brief moment. "Yes. You're absolutely right, Mr. Walken. My sweet darling daughter - " she spat those three words " – can go to hell, if she likes, but I want my pearl necklace back."
This was more like it, I thought, but didn't say. We chatted for a few more minutes and I collected the information I needed to start my investigation.
Cherisse Chandler had last been seen by her mother on April third, a Saturday, as the two of them were dressing for a charity ball. Cherisse had borrowed the pearl necklace in question to accessorize her gown.
"More to accessorize her tits," Mrs. Chandler commented. "The gown was extremely low cut, and she wanted the pearls to hang down her cleavage like an arrow pointing to them. Not that she needed any indication, she's better built than I am. I disapproved, but allowed her to wear the necklace anyway."
Mrs. Chandler was then driven to the ball early, as she was on the steering committee, leaving Cherisse to drive herself there in her own car, a Jaguar convertible. Cherisse never arrived at the ball, and when Mrs. Chandler, furious, returned home later that evening, she found both daughter and pearls gone, as well as the car.
"That necklace is valued at three quarters of a million dollars, Mr. Walken. It was a gift from my late husband. If you find it, with or without my daughter, I assure you that your efforts will be generously rewarded."
She stood, dropped an envelope on my desk, and walked to the door. The fabric of her skirt was stretched tight over her firm ass, and her calves were firm and shapely. Her daughter was better built than she was? Hard to believe.
She was out the door before I knew it, apparently assuming that I would take the case. She'd assumed correctly, but I liked to have the chance to say so personally.
I shrugged and picked up the envelope Mrs. Chandler had given me. Inside were three snapshots of a young, pretty blonde I took to be Cherisse, an additional photo of Mrs. Chandler wearing the necklace in question (the pearls accentuated her own tits to great effect, too, I noticed) and a check for $5,000.00. Some retainer.
THE REST OF THAT DAY WAS SPENT running to the several pawnshops in the city, showing the photos and asking if either the girl or the necklace had been seen there. Then back to the office for some phone calls to the various fences I was familiar with, to see if they'd pushed a string of pearls or knew of anyone else who had.
I came up cold on everything. I grabbed my coat and told Priss I was heading home.
She looked up at me and idly scratched a dusky breast. "See you in the morning, Boss," she drawled, licking her lips. I walked out of there with the initial stirring of a hard-on.
The next morning, however, when I arrived at the office, Priss was nowhere in sight. This was unusual for her, as I knew for a fact she couldn't do without her morning ritual. Suddenly a piercing shriek erupted from behind the door of my private suite. Priss! Someone was attacking her!
Bursting through the door, I had my fists clenched in readiness to protect my faithful secretary. But I stopped short when I saw what had caused Priss to scream: A beautiful blonde, wearing only a black lace bra, garter and stockings, had her face buried in my secretary's tight snatch!
Priss, in a similar state of undress, was on her back on my desk, bucking her hips up and down in a state of sheer ecstasy. Her fingers were tangled in the blonde's hair, pulling her face closer, if such a thing was possible.
I stood transfixed, stupefied, as the blonde brought Priss to orgasm with her tongue, and then climbed up on the desk to feed one large white jug into her black mouth. Priss sucked the nipple greedily while she moved a hand down to diddle the blonde's clam.
The white girl moved in concert with Priss's intent fingers. Her own hands rested fully on my secretary's lovely boobs, squeezing the coffee-colored flesh fiercely.
They were oblivious to my presence, hadn't even seemed to hear me break the door in. Now it was the blonde's turn to come, and she did, fervently, drenching Priss's hand in the process. Both women were coated with a fine sheen of perspiration from their efforts.
It wasn't until the blonde had finished kissing Priss in appreciation and stepped down from the desktop that I recognized her from the photos her mother had given me: Cherisse Chandler.
They both noticed me standing there, but each reacted differently: Priss sat up sharply and jumped down from the desk, her mahogany jugs, hanging out of the cups of her demi-bra, swaying right and left.
"Boss!" she said, a little out of breath. "I, uh, lost track of time." I let this comment go, mostly because I was still dumbstruck by what I had seen her doing with another woman. I had an unbidden hard-on that was straining at the zipper, too, which was more than a little distracting.
The other woman, Cherisse Chandler, continued standing where she was, a look of cool defiance on her face as if she had nothing to lose. "Mr. Walken," she said quietly, "I hear you've been looking for me."
"Yes," I finally croaked. "Well, not so much you as that string of pearls you're wearing." The pearls were wrapped about five times around her long white neck, with a single long strand surrounding her magnificent breasts like a very expensive underwire.
"Well, you've found us both, and I'll be happy to explain everything in time, but right now," she said, her yellow eyes, so like her mother's, now fixated on the bulge in my pants, "I need your cock! Priscilla, get him ready, dear."
Priss swayed over to me, her initial confusion gone under the stern confidence of my client's daughter, and ran her hands down my chest to my rigid pecker, squeezing it through the fabric, undoing the fly. A nice change from the usual morning ritual, I was thinking.
Still standing, Priss bent at the waist to engulf my Johnson with her pillow-soft lips. I ran my hand down her back and cupped her firm ass, then slipped three fingers into that sopping pussy. Priss tried to shift away, but I kept a good grip, and soon she was enjoying my ministrations.
I was interrupted all too soon. "Bring him over here," Cherisse said. Priss took her mouth away from my dick with a loud pop, pulling a thick string of pre-cum away from it like mozzarella cheese from a slice of pizza.
Gripping my boner tightly in her hand, she led me over to my desk chair and pushed me down into it. Priss kissed Cherisse fondly and stepped away, allowing the blonde to straddle my legs and impale her dripping cunt in reverse cowgirl position.
"Oh, sweet fucking Jesus," she moaned. "Who are you, John Holmes?"
"I told you he had a big cock, didn't I?" Priss commented, saucily. Cherisse put her hands on my knees for support and fucked my rod with long, slow strokes. I reached up and felt those mesmerizing flesh pillows for the first time.
She leaned back against my chest, allowing me a better grip. I kneaded and mashed those globes, twisting her long nipples and making her gasp. She put her hands on the arms of the chair and lifted her ass a little bit, which allowed me room to piston my cock in and out of her gash. Her moaning and gasping told me she was getting ready to climax. I was getting pretty close myself.
Priss, who had been standing close by, watching us fuck, got down on her knees in front of us and used her talented mouth and tongue to suck and lick my balls and shaft, and Cherisse's clit in an upward sweeping motion.
The sensation was fantastic, and when the blonde allowed my cock to fall out of her pussy, Priss deep-throated me with gusto, washing Cherisse's pussy juice off my prick, and bringing my already sensitive cock-head ever nearer to exploding.
"Put it back in!" Cherisse shrieked. "I want to feel his come!" My secretary quickly obliged, holding my boner upright with both hands so Cherisse could sit down on it again. "Mmmm, yeah," she said. "Shoot it, oh fuck, shoot it deep inside me, oh, Jesus, I can feel your big cock in my stomach! Fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming!"
Suddenly, so was I. My nuts got tight, my pecker swelled up and expanded the walls of her pussy, and shot jet after jet of my hot, salty spunk into that tight hole.
Cherisse was bouncing on my cock in a frenzy now, and a miscalculated upstroke caused my bone to fall out again while I was still shooting my jizz. Priss was right there, though, and grabbed my cock to receive the remainder of my load on her face and tits, jacking my shaft and squeezing out the last drops.
Cherisse didn't seem to be one who liked to be left out of anything. She hopped off my lap and seized Priss's face in her hands, using her pointed pink tongue to lick my spooge off my secretary's cheeks and chin. She swallowed some of it, then shared the rest with Priss, locked in a deep soul kiss. They both then exchanged a knowing look, and turned to me, taking turns licking my wilting erection back to full hardness.
AFTER I HAD SHOT MY LOAD, HOWEVER, I was better able to gain some control of the situation. I stood, tucked my John Thomas back into my clothes and advised the ladies to get dressed, because we had some talking to do.
A few minutes later, all of us feeling a bit more composed, we got down to cases. Priss and Cherisse sat in chairs opposite mine at the desk, each looking as if nothing untoward had happened just moments ago.
"OK," I said, pointing a pencil at the blonde, "start talking. How did you find out I was looking for you and your mother's pearls?"
"Priscilla called me at a friend's house, where I've been staying since I left my mother's," she replied. Cherisse reached her hand over to Priss's and gripped it quickly, smiling, then returned her own hand to her lap.
"Priss? What's your explanation of all this?" I asked.
"Boss, I've known Cherisse since college. We were, um, good friends, and I know she wouldn't have taken those pearls without a good reason."
She swallowed, took a breath, and continued. "As for what you walked in on this morning, well, I hadn't seen her for a long time, so when she came to the office, well, um, one thing sort of led to another."
Cherisse jumped in to say, "You know, auld lang syne and all that." Priss looked at her and nodded gratefully.
"OK, well, auld acquaintance aside," I said dryly, "what's this 'good reason' you have for running off with your mother's necklace?"
"I overheard my mother's boyfriend, the prick, telling someone on the phone that he planned to steal it and replace it with a paste copy. I love my mother, Mr. Walken, even though we sometimes don't get along, and don't want to see her get hurt."
This was turning into the easiest case I'd had in a long time. I briefly considered giving back Mrs. Chandler some of that five grand. Briefly, that is. "Didn't you try to warn your mother?" I asked.
"Yes, but she didn't believe me. She loves the son of a bitch, and he's got her head all turned around."
"What's his name?"
"Cosmo Kokadopoulous. He passes himself off as another Aristotle Onassis, but I think he's a fake." She paused. Her voice took on a plaintive tone as she said, "Mr. Walken, I only took the pearls because I felt that doing something outrageous like that would make her wake up and listen. Will you help me talk to her?"
As she asked the last question, Cherisse clasped her hands together pleadingly and placed them on the desk. The motion inadvertently caused her tremendous tits to press together and bulge in a very inviting way. I forced myself to look into her amber eyes. I knew that I was hearing the truth, or what she believed to be the truth, so I agreed to be her go-between.
"Now," I resumed, "there's the question of you, Priss." I looked over at my beautiful secretary, her face composed and serene, as if she were queen of some African tribe listening to the words of a White God come into her midst.
I wanted to ask her why, why would she give me head every morning but not allow me to return the favor; why would she insist that our sex play go no further? I had been given part of that answer this morning when I witnessed the two women going at it on my desk top – Priss was probably more DC than AC. I decided to let it ride, the sexual question, that is.
"I don't appreciate an employee who calls herself loyal to hold back information from me, Priss." My face assumed an anger that I didn't truly feel, but she had to know I was serious.
"Boss, I'm sorry that you had to go and waste so much time yesterday, but I needed you out of the office so I could call Cherisse in private and warn her. I convinced her to get herself in here this morning and explain it all to you." Her serenity crumbled suddenly and she looked close to tears. "Can you forgive me?"
Instead of answering right away, I picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Mrs. Chandler? Busy Walken here. I've got some information on your case. When may I drop by? An hour? I'll be there. Thank you."