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Etude Noir #2
The butler left me in the entryway: a high-ceilinged affair with a little chandelier so high up you had to crane your neck to notice it. Lots of dark wood and little tables that someone had bought to hold up some little trinket. Or, maybe they’d bought the trinket as an excuse for the table. Either way it felt both cluttered and impossibly open at the same time. This was a space that was not meant to be used. That I was standing here let me know the score.
I was still standing there ten minutes later when I hear someone coming down the stairs. I unslouched and held my hat in both hands, ready to greet this bag of money on legs that more than likely wanted me to tell him what he already knew about how his wife was fucking the pool boy and buying heroin on 32nd street.
Instead, I see this dame coming down the stairs, humming something that may or may not have been a tune, her golden hair pulled back slick against her head, and her mouth a bright red pout. She wore a silk cocktail dress, I guess. Though what would separate it from underwear is beyond me. She held a book in one hand, holding it up in front of her as she walked. Her other hand swung loosely at her side. I guessed she was a dancer. I knew she was trouble.
“Best watch where you’re going, love. You’re going to hurt yourself.”
She glanced up from her book, game me a withering look, kept moving though the entryway, through a set of heavy doors and into a room that offered a quick glance of high shelves and reading lamps, house plants, and a well-shaped ass. And then she was gone.
I turned my hat in my hands and waited. Two more minutes, I decided. Then, I was out of there.
Right on cue, the same double doors opened and a man shambled out. He was in his mid-sixties, sickly, pale, a yellowed beard straggling from his chin. He was tall, and he looked like he had once been big, a powerful body, but now his skin seemed to hang on him. He turned his head slightly to one side when he looked at me, spoke out of the side of his mouth. Stroke.
“Mr. Silver,” he said, extending his hand.
“Please, call me Charlie.”
“John Wakefield,” he said, still pumping my hand.
“Well, Mr. Wakefield, what can I do for you?”
“Please, step into the library.”
We moved through into the cavernous room. There were two wing-back chairs arranged before the fire, and Wakefield moved toward them. I noticed a little ways off that my bookworm was curled into a chair, knees up, nose still in her book.
We sat. Wakefield talked. As I suspected, it was the wife. I half-listened, the blonde and her book just visible beyond Wakefield’s chair. It wasn’t long before I caught her eye. She looked up over the top of her book, batted her lashes at me, went back to reading.
Wakefield was going on and on, laying out all the evidence. What he needed me for I couldn’t imagine. I was there to seal the deal. With photos. The old man was crying now, just a tremble in the chin, really, but unmistakable, assuring me of his own devotion. The girl’s hand slipped slowly up her leg, pulling the hem of her dress up with it.
I knotted my brow and nodded gravely at Wakefield, my hands laced together under my chin like a priest accepting his confession. Beyond Wakefield, the girl’s hand had reached deep between her legs, vanished in deep shadow. I noticed that while she still held the book up, her eyes were closed.
Wakefield took a moment to collect himself, his face buried in his hands, shoulders shaking. I loosened my tie and shifted in my seat. Fact was, I was a bit uncomfortable, and it wasn’t just Wakefield’s emotional display.
Her hand was still working in that beautiful dark space between her legs, her shoulder moving in tight circles, and the strap of her dress slipped down along the smooth length of her upper arm. A hard pink nipple peeked just above the neckline.
I shifted again, my cock hard against my leg. Wakefield collected himself, dabbed at his eyes with a handkerchief. He looked stern now, like he’d worked through his grief and was ready to move on. I was kind of hoping he’d back up to the weepy stage because he was blocking my view of the blonde. I could see that she’d lifted her leg up and hung it over the arm of her chair, giving a much better view as she rubbed at her clit with two fingers.
“Could I get you a drink, Mr. Wakefield?” I said, rising.
“No, no,” he said, waving away the whole idea with a gnarled hand. “I’m fine, fine.”
I moved over beside his chair, placed a hand on his shoulder. The blonde was biting the cover of her book now, tit hanging out, pussy spread wide, fingers rubbing wildly. I squeezed the old man’s shoulder in solidarity.
“I’ll take care of everything, Mr. Wakefield. Don’t worry about a thing.”
The old man patted my hand and nodded.
“Thank you, Mr. Silver. I really appreciate your time, and your discretion.”
She had her two middle fingers in her pussy now, thrusting them deep into herself, book pressed against her chest, head thrown to the side. My cock was painfully hard, and I wanted nothing more than to move it to one side, but Wakefied was attentive now, looking up into my face.
“Absolutely,” I said. “We can have this whole thing wrapped up by week’s end.”
The blonde arched her back, raising her ass up off of the chair, fingers slipping in and out of her pussy and up over her clit in a frantic motion. The book fell to the floor.
“Well, I’ll have Joseph write a check for the retainer.”
“That’ll be fine,” I said, not really hearing.
She stiffened, her hand frozen with two fingers deep inside her. Her other hand clutched at the chair’s arm, fingers clawed, knuckles white. She threw her head from side to side, biting at her bottom lip to keep from crying out.
“I’ll send Joseph around before closing time on Friday to pick up whatever you find.”
The blonde relaxed, melting into the chair, and slipped her fingers from her pussy. She met my eyes, dark lashes batting, and ran her tongue along the length of the fingers before sucking them both clean. She adjusted the strap onto her shoulder and pulled the hem of her dress down to her knees again.
“Actually, sir,” I said.
She bent over, eyes still locked on mine, tits all but falling out of her dress, and picked up her book. She stood, shot me the same disgusted look she’d greeted me with, and strode out of the room, hips swinging.
“Actually, if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to bring it by myself.”
I watched the door swing shut behind her and knelt down beside the old man, placing my hand over his.
“The personal touch is very important to me, Mr. Wakefield. Very important.”
“Very well. We’ll be expecting you, Mr. Silver.”
“Thank you, Mr. Wakefield. It’s been a pleasure. Truly.”
And I walked out of the library, through the foyer, and out of the massive entry doors, my cock still hard in my pants, hat pulled low over my eyes, and filled with a sudden urge to renew my library card.
The Good Kind
When they pulled up in front of his house, James took the keys from the truck’s ignition and turned toward the girl beside him. She’d offered no name, and he hadn’t asked. But she was nestled into the space between the seat and her door, one leg up on the seat—long white legs and red boots—her denim skirt hitched up around her waist, running two fingers up and down the length of her cunt in a slow and deliberate rhythm.
James watched for a long moment. Her fingers were long and slender, nails cut short, dark red polish chipped and worn, and her pussy was swollen and glistening, the folds framed by a shock of black hair. She wore a black leather jacket, cut short, open in the front, the snaps of her red blouse open almost to the navel, showing her tits, pale and shapely in the cab’s half-light. Her face was shadowed by the brim of her cowboy hat, pulled down low.
“Jesus,” James whispered, wiping a hand across his mouth. “I’ve gotta get you in my bed now.”
She tilted her chin up, looking at him from under the hat’s brim, smiled.
“Not now,” she said. Her voice was low and smokey. “Get over here.”
She reached with her free hand and pulled him by the sleeve. He fell across the seat and she grabbed him by the hair at the back of his neck.
“Eat me,” she commanded, pulling him closer.
James didn’t hesitate but buried his face in the wetness of her cunt. She was hot and sweet, and her clit was swollen and stiff against the flat of his tongue. She wrapped the fingers of both hands in his hair and began to grind against his open mouth.
She lifted her foot up onto the back of the seat and lifted her other leg onto the dash, raising her hips up to meet his mouth.
“I need your fingers in me,” she said. He started to pull away, but she pulled tighter on his hair. “Don’t stop that.”
James ran his tongue up the length of her pussy, sucked at her clit, and slid a finger into her.
“More,” she said immediately. “More.”
He slipped another finger in, felt the pull at the back of his neck and slipped in a third. He turned his palm upward and began to slowly fuck her with his fingers curling up inside her, rubbing the smooth wall of her cunt.
“More,” she said again, and he looked up. Lightning quick her hand flashed across his face in a sharp slap. “Don’t stop,” she said, lacing her fingers back into his hair.
“I want your whole fist in me,” she growled.
James slipped his pinky inside, her pussy sucking tight around his hand up to his thumb. He pressed for a moment against her clit with the flat of the thumb and then returned to licking it before she could become angry again.
He was suddenly aware of his own cock hard in his jeans, almost painful. He slipped his fingers almost all the way out of her, tucked his thumb between his hot, sticky fingers, and then pushed the whole hand up into her.
He let out a little gasp at the sensation of his hand being swallowed up inside of her, the warmth and the pressure, the surreal vision of his hand vanished, the suck of the swollen lips against his wrist. He just leaned back and stared, unable to process how beautiful he found the scene.
She let his hair go and began to massage her clit with her fingers. James began to thrust back and forth slowly, watching carefully as his hand disappeared and reappeared, feeling the muscles inside her constrict around his fist.
“Harder,” she said, her teeth clenched and her fingers moving in ever swifter circles around the swollen pink of her clit.
James leaned into it, thrusting his fist deep into her, pulling it almost all of the way out until just the knuckles emerged, slick with her juice, and then thrust it back in. He matched the speed of his thrusts to the speed of her fingers circling her clit.
He was totally absorbed in his work, lost in the perfect rhythm, beginning to feel the burn in his shoulder, watching her intently: her fingers, her nipples poking out of her open shirt, the tendons of her neck standing out as she arched her back, chin up, fingers frantic at her pussy now.
“Out!” she shouted, and James looked at her, puzzled, but she pushed at his arm, slapping and clawing until he finally understood and slid his hand finally free of her pussy. That final movement, that passage of his knuckles across the tight opening seemed to send a charge through her. She slapped her hands against her pussy, pulling the flesh upward to expose the inner folds of her cunt, her ass well up off the seat. She groaned: a long, low animal sound, and flung her head from side to side. Her hat rolled off onto the floor of the cab. Her straight dark hair was plastered to her sweating cheeks, a strand caught up in her open mouth.
And then the sound in her throat rose to a shriek and the hot fluid came in a sudden rush, spilling out across the seat and arcing out into James’ lap.
And she collapsed, her boots falling to the seat, slapping in the puddle of her salty ejaculate, her whole body seeming to crumple in on itself.
James was still, kneeling there on the seat of his truck, soaked in her juices, cock hard in his wet jeans.
She wiped the hair away from her face, tucked her legs under her, looked across the cab at him, trying to gauge his reaction. For the first time she seemed something other than perfectly confident and in perfect control.
James sat up.
“What’s your name?” James asked.
“Sadie,” she said.
“Well, Sadie, will you tell me something? It’s important.”
“Sure,” she said, biting her knuckle.
“Can you do that again?”
Morning
The sun lit the curtain on the eastern wall, its heat already creeping into the room. The curtain hung still, not even a slight breeze to move the air. She was lying with the sheet wrapped around her legs, facing away from him, a wild tangle of black hair spilling around her bare shoulders and the morning’s glow shone warm on the curve of her hip. Slow, even breathing. He felt the blood rise, felt himself harden, and he ran a fingertip slowly down the line of her spine, slipping it lightly between her parted legs. He turned his hand, cupping her ass, and slipped his middle finger into the still-wet folds of her. She breathed out a long breath, shifted her hips, and pressed herself back into his hand.
She moaned, and turned her head toward him, eyes half open, a strand of hair crossing her pink and mobile mouth. She was on her side, pressing back against the pressure from his hand, taking his finger deep into her. He kissed her at the curve of her neck, salty and bright in his mouth.
He was painfully hard, his cock brushing against the soft flesh of her ass as he worked his finger deep inside her. His other hand cradled her neck, his fingers tangled in her hair.
She was fully awake now, arching her back and pressing herself back against him. She pulled the hand at her neck forward and took the tips of his fingers into her mouth, sucking and nibbling, breathy sighs escaping through her teeth. Her other hand slipped down between her legs, her fingers moving in slow circles around her clit. He loved this more than anything: to watch her bring herself to climax, to watch her lose herself in the shuddering pleasure of it.
“More,” she whispered, and he slipped another finger inside her.
He clutched her hair with his free hand and pulled her head back, kissing her open mouth fiercely, and thrust his fingers deeper into her pussy. His throbbing cock pressed against her ass. The hand at her clit moving faster now, she bit at his lips and shifted her hips back and forth, taking his slick fingers deeper and deeper inside of her.
And then her breath caught, her muscles gone taut, and he felt the sudden rush warm on his hand, and she went limp, eyelids fluttering, sweat standing out on her chest.
He smiled and dropped back on the bed and licked her salty wetness from his fingers as she panted beside him. Her full breast were slicked with sweat and her nipples were still hard and the strands of hair were fallen all across her flushed face.
With her eyes still half closed, she rolled over and took him in her hand. “My turn,” she whispered, and she took his cock into her mouth.
He came almost instantly, shooting into her open mouth as she stroked him. She swallowed once and then let the rest run back out where it rolled down the length of his cock. Slowly, she cleaned his cock like she was a cat, starting at the base and moving her way slowly and carefully up to the head. He writhed in pleasure as she took his cock back into her mouth, but finally pushed her away. It was too much.
She collapsed back onto the bed, her head resting on his chest. With her finger, she slowly wiped all around her mouth and then sucked the fingertip. The sun was falling on their slicked bodies. It was going to be a hot one.
Etude Noir #1
It was after three by the time I drug myself out of the station house and into the rain-wet streets. The night was quiet, and the air was warm, with the scent of the rain on the pavement still hanging in the air. I decided to walk the ten blocks to my apartment house, with no cabs to be seen.
By the time I’d climbed the stairs and opened my door, I was damp with sweat. I threw my jacket over the back of a chair and my hat on the radiator. I had my tie loosened when I saw the light from the bedroom.
I looked again at the time, rubbed my eyes with my fists, and I went in.
It was Doyle’s girl alright, and she’d made good use of my bed and my whiskey. She was lean and pale, rolling herself around on my dirty sheets, black garters sharp against her thighs. She looked up at me from under the straight line of her bangs, big dark eyes all watery with drink and sleep.
“Oh, Charlie, I didn’t hear you come in.” She giggled. “I’ve been waiting so long.”
“You should’ve made an appointment.”
“I’ve been here, in your bed, thinking of you, smelling your scent on your pillow, touching myself.”
“Or you’ve been reading my mail and rifling my sock drawer.” I stood at the end of the iron bed looking down at her. She pulled her knees up under her and raised her ass up in the air.
“Won’t you come to bed, Charlie?”
I came around and sat on the edge of the bed. She ran a warm hand up my thigh, and I grabbed her wrist, twisted it just enough to make her pay attention.
“What do you want with me?”
“Charlie, you’re hurting me.”
“And I’ll keep on hurting you, you’re making it easy for me. Tell me why you’re here, and don’t give me any talk about how need me or you want me. You sat over there, smoking my cigarettes and listening for the door, and when you heard me, you fixed your lipstick and then you put on this show. It’s a good show, don’t get me wrong, and if two witless clods hadn’t already spent the past five hours grilling me for the same thing you’re hoping to get out of me, I might go along with it. I have a feeling I’d like the third reel. But if those two couldn’t get what I don’t know out of me in all that time, you’re not going to do it in thirty seconds with some batted eyes and some ‘Come to bed, Charlies.’”
I let go of her wrist and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The fact was, I was tired. She rolled away from me, the long line of her spine disappearing into her sheer black underwear. She was clutching her injured wrist to her chest.
“You can keep your secrets,” she said, sniffling. “I didn’t come here to ask you a damned thing.”
Like everything else, it was a lie, and not even a convincing one, but then she rolled over onto her back, her breasts milky white, nipples pink and tight. Her mascara was a mess, running back into her hairline, and her lipstick was smeared. She still held her wrist tenderly in her other hand like it was broken.
“Well, let’s see what you did come here for,” I said, unbuckling my belt. She looked at me, eyes big, like she might scream. All show. But I was beginning to like the show more and more. I dropped the belt, took both of her wrists in my left hand, and squeezed her breast with my right. She whimpered. I pressed my mouth to her breast, covering her nipple with my open mouth. She caught her breath and I could hear the stubble of my chin scratching on her soft, soft flesh.
I let her go again and stood up. She’d left two fingers of whiskey in the bottle on the floor by the bed. I took a swallow. She got up on her knees, her hands on my chest. I took another swallow as she unbuttoned my shirt.
“Like I said, I don’t know any more than anyone else, but if we’re going to do this thing, you may as well start asking your questions.”
“Will you fuck me, Charlie?”
“Good form, starting with the easy questions. The boys at the stations could learn a thing or two from you.”
She kissed my stomach, running her fingertip up and down the line of dark hair there.
“The fact is, I never even met Betty MacDonald, and her husband’s death is giving me a headache like you wouldn’t believe, but if you press the point a little further, I might just change my tune,” I sighed as she released my cock from my pants. Her hands felt small and hot.
She looked up at me, those dark eyes masked with her running mascara, lips twisted into a smirk. I ran my fingers into her black hair, pulled her closer. Her lips parted slightly, white teeth flashing, and she kissed the tip of my cock.
With her eyes still locked on mine, she opened wider, taking me into her mouth. She kept on, her tongue out, until her nose was nuzzling my pubic hair. She held it there, still looking up at me. A tear formed in her right eye, rolled swiftly down her cheek, trailing mascara behind it.
Finally, she released it, spit falling in long strings from her gasping mouth. She smiled up at me, her eyes looking a little wild.
“Hey, Charlie,” she whispered.
“Yeah, sweetheart?”
“Fuck you.”
And that’s when Doyle stepped out of the john, arm out, a cute little pistol in his hand.
The fact was, I was damned tired.
