by Arthur Kay |
As Tag signaled with a low, male-like groan, that he was about to cum, Lucy said,
"Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" Then, "Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Oh, oh, Mr. Boneher-fiercely,
she's cummin' up dry! More oil! Use your squirt can on her!" Tag obliged.
Suppressing the urge to laugh, he squirted and came. And squirted some
more. Lucy said, "Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" He then collapsed onto her back, his head near hers, and placed kisses all over the nape of her neck. Lucy twisted her head around and kissed him on the lips. A long, wet, tongue-flashing kiss. As they broke from the kiss, Tag whispered into her right ear, "I love you, Lucy Fern!" He kissed her neck again. And once more. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, you always say that right after your pencil's outta lead!" Was she being funny or was she being sarcastic? Either way, Tag stood up and said softly "Turn around, sweetheart." She complied, standing and facing him. He looked into her eyes. "You're right, Luce, sorry." He took her into his arms and kissed her again. This kiss seemed for real, just like the ones longtime lovers always use. After a seemingly long interval, they broke from the kiss, her hands still around his neck, his hands resting lightly on her hips. She looked at him, a small grin on her face. "Geez, Taggie, don't go gettin' all mushy on me. OK? I was just funnin' ya." "All the same, I think it'd be nice having a little upfront, foreplay mushy. And, for some strange, unexplainable reason, way beyond the comprehension of most mere mortals, I like saying the words to you, Luce. Love ya, love ya, love ya. So there!" She kissed him quickly on the lips, pressed a hand to the left side of his chest and said, "Holy shit, Mr. Boneher-oh-so-mushy, I do believe your heart's plumb stopped!" He shammed a scowl at her. "Get your ass out of here, crazy woman, and scream out any appointments I have for this afternoon. OK?" She saluted him. "You got it, slave driver boss. And zip up, wouldya? Your pencil's hangin' out . . . again!" She briskly headed toward the door. Without turning, she added, "And it's oozing lead . . . again!" He looked down. Sure enough, it was slightly tip-soaked. He took a tissue and wiped if off. As he headed toward his private bathroom to give it a proper wash up, he yelled out to her, "Thanks, Luce, I might have scared my next appointment!" Lucy mumbled something that he didn't quite catch, but it had a snide and sarcastic tone to it . . . * * * * * * DETECTIVE HUNGER walked right into Tag's inner office. It was late afternoon. Tag
looked up at him. The detective had four large, manila envelopes clutched in his
hands. "You're unguarded, Tag, your gal Friday is AWOL." He sounded disappointed. "Lucy's at the hotel salon getting her nails done or something. What's up?" "Brought you all of Wilde's printed books and some of her random notes . . . as promised." Tag nodded as Hunger dropped the envelopes onto the desk. "Tag, old bean, these'll really teach you a few new wrinkles. They did me!" "Hot stuff, huh?" "Hot? Shit, pardon my French, Tag, but she could prove to Satan that he didn't know squat one about the heat thing! Wear asbestos gloves, OK?" "Geez, Jack, you're scaring me!" He threw his hands up and shammed a scared look. "For your own good, son. Now, Tag, I gotta be off, but tell me something, if you don't mind, that is, is your gal Friday seeing anybody special?" Ho ho, thought Tag. "Oops, I forgot to introduce you two the other day. Sorry. Her name is Lucy, Lucy Fern. And, far as I know, she's not hooked up with any one . . . special. If you're interested, and I assume you are, she loves Italian food and French. Food, that is!" He laughed. "Then you wouldn't mind if I asked her out? I thought you and . . . " "Nah, we're strictly business, the two of us. Go for it, Jack." Tag felt like a matchmaker, but he also felt he had no right not to give Lucy the opportunity to say yes or no to a guy. He didn't own her, after all. And he had shared her on more than one occasion in the recent past, could still be sharing right now, for all he knew. "Thanks, Tag. Well, enjoy your reading." He turned and headed toward the door. As he passed Lucy's desk, Tag heard him yell out, "And don't forget the gloves!" At the front door, Hunger yelled out again, "They're for handling the paper, Tag, not your pecker!" Tag heard Hunger laugh as he went through the door. Tag looked at the pile of manila envelopes before him. He started to open the top one when he remembered. He was taking Lucy to dinner and then home to his bed. Shit, he thought, these can wait for tomorrow. He heard Lucy make her entrance, and he had a present for her. It wasn't her birthday or anything special, he just wanted her to know he appreciated having her around. "Hey, Luce, can you come here a second? And don't lock the door, this is strictly business. OK?" She popped her head into the doorway. "Really? You sick or something?" She grinned at him. Then she stuck out her tongue and wiggled it around. Tag laughed. "No, I just wanted you to have this." He held out a rectangular box that was nicely wrapped with shiny gold paper, and tied with a large red bow. "For me?" she said as she approached him and took the package. "Gee, boss, you sure you ain't sick?" "Open it, dummy, before I do get sick!" She tore it open and tears welled up in her eyes. She was looking at: "Oh, Tag, you had my de Mestral poem made up! It's just so . . . so beautiful! I-I don't know what to say! You . . . you big mug, you!" She leaned out and kissed his cheek. Tag looked sheepish. "Aw, shucks, Ma'am, 'twas nutting." But he knew, to her, it was more than just something, and he was tickled that she liked it. "And, Tag, I know just where to hang it. In my foyer, so I can look at it every time I leave my apartment." She kissed his cheek again, this time squeezing his face with both her hands. "Thank you, Tag, I'll treasure it!" "Now, baby, how about a nice Chinese meal? I know this new place over on Howard called The Hunan Lion . . . " "Great! I'm famished. Just let me get my stuff together." She left the room and Tag thought: Shit, old prune, how much of this is due to my being jealous of Detective Hunger? Nah, what's to be jealous of . . . ? * * * * * * TAG AND LUCY was sharing a bed. Tag's queen-size bed. They had just finished going
at it like two hippos in heat and were watching Leno on the tube. They had the
sound set down low, just in case either one had something to chat about. To them,
the TV was just audible wallpaper. Both were sitting up, nude as babies, with
piles of large, fluffy pillows behind their backs. Tag looked over at her and said, "Hey, Luce! How's about I fix us a couple of our usual nightcaps?" Lucy, not taking her eyes from the TV screen, nodded. They had done this particular scenario many times in their relationship. As Tag headed toward the door, Lucy turned the TV's sound up a notch. Leno was delivering a joke during his monologue: "A doctor has come up with a new diet based on masturbation. He came up with the idea all by himself!" Leno paused to let the audience laugh. "I believe he calls it Weight Whackers!" The studio audience laughed again. Lucy giggled. She liked watching old Leno. His large chin reminded her of an adequate landing spot for pussy. An idea she had once shared with Tag, who whole-heartedly agreed with her. Tag returned, carrying the drinks on a wooden tray. Lucy turned the sound back down. She told him the Leno funny and he chuckled a bit. He liked Leno, too, but maybe not as much. And the chin didn't do much for him, either. He handed Lucy her drink, cleared his side of the bed of all the pillows and set down the wooden tray in their place. He pulled a side chair up to the bed, turned it to face the TV, and plopped his still naked ass down in it. All was comfy now. Just like married folk. He grabbed his Scotch and soda from the tray, lifted it, and said, almost in a whisper, "Cheers, baby!" Lucy threw back, "My bottom's up!" Tag chuckled. They sipped. Tag broke the short silence that followed. "Out of curiosity, Luce, you still tagging that Oliver guy? The one you said had the hairiest balls you'd ever laid eyes on?" "Nah, he's history. I got me a new steady fuck. A real good one!" She smiled at him, looking very Cheshire cat-like. "W-Who is he, Luce?" Shit, he thought, that came out a tad hoarse, nervous, and edgy. Just like a cuckold who's wife has just told him she's been doing one of his twenty pals. "He lives in my building, on the same floor. You know him, you even met him a few times. Horace Viking. Ring a bell?" It rang a bell all right. "Him? That guy? Christ, Luce, he's an outright dweeb! A Dweeb Hall of Famer!" Horace sure was, if any one was, but Tag now felt he had been a tad jealous sounding. Lucy shammed huffy. "Horace is not a dweeb, Taggie! Nerdy, I'll give you, but he's no dweeb when it comes to fucking away! He's hung like a horse and he knows how to use it, too. So there, nosy ass!" She sniffed and took a sip of her gin and tonic. "Lives up to his last name, eh?" She nodded, grinning. He added, "Minus the horned helmet, I hope!" She nodded again, and then said, "Well, he's sure horny, in both heads, but neither one wears a helmet. Then again, his cock head is sorta shaped like one. The kind the firemen wear. Ha ha!" Tag's curiosity took a prurient turn. "How big is the horse part of horny Horace, your Viking man?" She held up an arm. Tag said, "Your fist, wrist, or forearm?" He chuckled. "Wrist, silly, although I wouldn't complain if his cock's head was either of the other two. But it's also long. Soooooo long! It goes from here," she pointed to her wrist, "to here!" She pointed to the crook in her elbow. She now chuckled. Tag wasn't done exploring the sex path just yet. "Geez, Luce, that's about a foot long and two fucking inches wide! Horace sure is a fucking Viking, a superman fucking Viking, at that!" He exhaled loudly. Lucy started getting into the spirit of it all. "He knows how to use it, too. Makes me cum oodles. In puddles. He's also very gentle and loving, just the way you pretend to be now and again." She shot him a quick scowly glance. "And he lets me do my slow, sensual suck and finger, too. Just like you," she paused for effect, "always do." Tag shammed a grimace. "Geezy peezy, sweetheart, I'm getting envious of your Viking." "Relax, schmucko, you're both great, but in different ways. You're very manly compared to Horace, shit, way more virile, too. And I love that. But he's more needy than you are, that's needy, not nerdy, and I like that because he makes me feel like an adored queen. And, as I said, he let's me do my suck and finger routine on him, and he really appreciates it, if you can picture that?" Oh, Tag could picture it, all right. Tag knew what she meant by her slow, sensual suck and finger routine. Lucy didn't just suck a cock, she made love to it. Slow and easy. Moaning throughout. As if she was worshipping the dick. In love with it. While she masturbated herself. Suck and finger. Tag would lay back, his hands behind his head, and watch her, totally rapt and mesmerized. Her delicate right hand would be wrapped around his cock shaft's base, her palm pressing into and cupping his balls. Her other hand would be somewhere down in her nether regions, fingering away. With the cock head in her mouth, she'd go up and down on it, slowly, so sensuously, so deliberately, so deliciously feeling. Her tongue would slowly, and oh, so sensuously, trace out his cock's underside. Exploring him, tasting him, enjoying him. While constantly moaning. Here and there, as the mood struck her, she would deep-throat him. Staying down on it for a minute or so, her nose and lips buried in his pubic hairs, she would moan constantly, a low moaning, the kind of moaning that only comes from one receiving great pleasure. And Tag would moan, softly, right along with her. Tag always felt as if he was the recipient of one of the world's great and secret gifts. If a noise from the real world should happen to intrude, a car horn, a loud voice, he would always think: Millions of guys are out there getting blown right now, but not one of them has ever had anything like this. Or ever will. Sometimes, Tag would be super tired, or all fucked out from a recent fuck session with her, so he would just lie there, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders, or behind his head, and let her do her suck and finger thing. He knew that if he should lose his erection, or even fall asleep, she would still be gently sucking on him, enjoying herself. He liked that idea. It removed all performance pressure and made it all the more uncomplicated. Uncompetitive, even. And Lucy had taught him something, too. He no longer just ate pussy, he made love to it. With his tongue, his lips, his chin, even his nose. And he let himself go with the flow, moaning the way she did, enjoying it, falling into it, being hypnotized by it. It made their sixty-nining unbelievably unselfish and trance-like. Even their moans were in sync, rhythmic even. Many times, he would awaken to find her sucking on his flaccid cock, in the 69 position, her legs spread wide on each side of his shoulders. Her sleep-warm pussy just inches from his face, the muskiness of it filling his nostrils. He would put his arms around her waist and draw her down to him, his lower face finding her heat, entering, getting soaked and awash with her juices. And they would suck away. And rhythmically moan. On these occasions, half awake, half horny, when he came, it was different from his usually hard-jetting way of cumming. It would seep, very slowly, out of him, as if being drawn out by an invisible force with no rush in mind. And, whether sleepiness had a role in it or not, it would seem to last longer than usual. Lucy took a sip, held the glass in place, and peered at him over the rim. "And Horace the Viking cums a ton, too! Much more than you do, Mr. Boneher-and-piddle-a-liddle! Ha ha!" She was enjoying herself. Tag, knowing he usually came a full tablespoon, sometimes more, was curious. But not competitive. If a guy was better than him in someway, any way, fuck it was his mantra. "You've told me, Luce, that you sometimes have to swallow two times with me. You saying he makes you swallow more than that?" He felt his dick stir. "Yes, Mr. Nosypants . . . usually three times and, if my Viking man hasn't had an orgasm in a week or so . . . four times! And his cum is thick and lumpy . . . just like Dannon yogurt!" "No fruit on the bottom though, I assume!" She giggled and sipped. "No, but it does taste sweet. He says eating bananas does that. Yours is more acrid, more pungent like." Tag said, matter-of-factly, "You saying I don't eat enough bananas?" He took a sip. His dick was still trying to say something to him. It just hadn't found its full voice yet. Then Lucy got its full attention. "Bananas shmananas! All this cock and cum talk has me boiling hot. How about some suck and finger? OK?" Sometimes, old Tag doesn't have to be asked twice . . . * * * * * * SUCK AND FINGER followed its usual pleasant route, the not-of-this-earth route. After Tag had cum, with her swallowing it all, and swallowing just once he figured, because his rest period hadn't been that long, she crawled up and kissed him full on the lips, the taste of his own cum mingling with their saliva. They broke from the kiss and she snuggled up into his right arm's space. Lucy broke the silence first. "You were a little on the pungent side, Taggie, but anyway, how's your Wendy Wilde murder case coming along?" "It didn't taste pungent to me, Luce, but as far as the murder goes, it's not my murder case, it's Detective Hunger's. I just fart around the edges and try not to stink things up too much for him." He squeezed her to him. "Guys can't tell their own cum taste, Taggie Waggy, just like they can't tell when they have bad breath, but anyhooha, how's Hunger's murder case going then?" She snuggled into him. Tag chose to leave the cum trail for now. "Don't know. He hasn't arrested me yet, or anyone else for that matter, so I assume he's still hot and heavy on it. Oh, he told me he has some films of the Wilde woman in action and he's sending them over to me. I should have them first thing tomorrow. Wanna watch them together?" He felt her head nod vigorously. Lucy just loved hot flicks . . . * * * * * * THE NEXT DAY found Tag up to his ears in hotel business. For a change. A domestic squabble in suite 233. Another squabble in 411. He worked them both out to every one's satisfaction. Then some woman, a Ms. Cavendish, called to say she was missing a little jewelry. He said he'd be right up. On the way out of his office, he ran into Hunger. Hunger said hello. "Can't chat now, Jack, small jewel robbery on the tenth floor. Anything overly important?" "No, Tag, run along. Besides, I'm not here to see you. Oh, you won't get the films until tomorrow. Some of the boys want to watch them again. For clues!" He grinned. Tag grinned back. "I see! Well, good luck, old man." Hunger nodded as Tag took off in the direction of the elevators . . . * * * * * * IT WAS LATE AFTERNOON by the time Tag got around again to the Wilde envelopes. He
opened them all first, then dumped their contents onto his desk. There were five
printed books, a cover layout for a new one, and a printed galley of another
book's front and back covers. There were also some neatly typed sheets of paper.
And one sheet with handwriting on it, in blue ballpoint pen ink. It was a list
of sex categories. He placed it, for no real reason, on the bottom of the pile. He started with the finished books first. Although he had seen all of them neatly lined up in suite 912, he just now noticed that, except for Pandora's Box, they were in numerical order. A large, tall number had been printed in the lower right hand corner of each cover. Two through five. He organized the five printed book that way, with Pandora's Box sitting on top of the pile. Then he put book number six's printed galley of its two covers together with book number seven's rough cover layout. He backed these up with the typed out sheets and the handwritten page. He now had two neat piles. He decided to start with the finished, printed book pile. He grabbed Pandora's Box, looked at the cover, wondered if it was Wilde herself, then turned it over to read the back cover blurb. Besides the usual sales puffery, he came away knowing she had written it from her real-life experiences with a swinger's group. The group, called The Stroker's Club, knew Wilde as simply, Pandora. There were usually thirty couples in the group. Most of them married. Wilde, using a male friend as an escort, had been a member of the group for one year, meeting every Saturday evening. Simple math told Tag she had swung with the Stroker's exactly fifty-two times. Averaging, he thought, four men a meeting, that's . . . |