!ADULTS ONLY! Tag Bonewell: House Dick!

Taggart Oliver Bonewell, Tag to his friends, was a detective, a private eye, a gumshoe, but a failed one of late. After six years on the police force, six long years of fighting his dislike for authority and his inability to play by the rules, he had formed his own P.I. shop, Taggart Bonewell Investigations. Discretion Assured.

He loved the idea of being his own boss and answering to no one. His time was his own, and it was nobody's business just how he went about spending it. He wasn't too crazy about having to do all the necessary paperwork crap, such as billing and those dreaded tax forms, but he felt it was a cheap price to pay for his freedom.

At first, things had gone swimmingly well. He had four cases from personal recommendations, had solved all of them, and had made over twelve grand in less than two months of deductive reasoning. He even hired a secretary, who was also the receptionist, and she wore many other hats, as the day called for. Tag also took on a bigger and better office. With a bigger and better nut to crack each month. And that monthly nut was about to crack him. Real hard and most unforgiving like.

Because the economy changed. Cases still came his way, but they were getting fewer and farther between. He was now down to his last five hundred bucks, with the office rent of six hundred and eighty bucks due in a few weeks. Not to mention his own apartment rent, which was due around the same time. There was no way, he knew, of having money be in two places at the same time. Something had to give. He knew just what that something would be. He shaved it every day.

His secretary, Lucy Fern, hadn't been paid in who knows how long, and the work phone was being threatened by its first turn-off notice. A sweet reminder that the phone company is really not your friend. His home phone would surely follow suit, leaving him in possession of his first cellphone paperweight.

His business, he well knew, was in the old crapper with a giant invisible hand poised on the flusher. If he didn't do something real soon, it was flushy flushy time, and hello sewer.

Motivated, he groaned his way out of bed and went to stand before his full length closet door mirror. As he always slept nude, the man in the mirror was also naked. Shit, he thought, I'm too fucking pretty to have these problems. He liked the image that now looked back at him. Grinning, just as he was.

People told him he reminded them of Tom Selleck and it was true, to some extent. In his mid-thirties, and 6' 2" tall, with wavy brown hair and deep brown eyes, he did cut a good looking figure. As a male friend of his had once said, "Taggy, for some unknown reason, women just love the cut of your jib." He had playfully asked the guy what he meant by a jib. The clown replied, "Oh, a jib is an 8" thing with a big, purple head. Any fool knows that!"

He now grinned at the man in the mirror and watched in fascination as it imitated him. Shit, he thought, I look downright dopey, grinning like that! Especially with my jib hanging down and all. He did a little dance, making his jib wobble about. The guy in the mirror played along and wobbled his jib back at him.

But, he thought, there ain't nothing dopey about my 8" jib! He grabbed it and wiggled it at the mirror, half expecting the mirror to flinch and look away. When it echoed his pecker dickerings in kind, he felt absolutely silly.

Christ, he thought, this must be how gays get into their game. Looking at their own dicks must make them want to get on their knees and try to suck it. Then when their mirror image also gets on its knees, whoa, baby, frustration sets in and they go looking for an alternative answer. The real thing.

He knelt before his image just to prove the point. See, he thought, dumb fucker won't remain standing! "Hey, buddy," he said to the mirror. "I'll do you, then you'll do me!" No go. The fucking image wanted to go first. Every time. Yeah, he mused, that's what causes homosexuality. Mirrors!

He looked at the clock on the bedroom wall. 7:00 a.m. Good. He'd get into the office earlier than Lucy and have time to plan his next move. A move he already knew the answer to. What choice was there after all? None. But, on the bright side, it would put a hold on the giant crapper flusher hand.

An hour later found him seated at his office desk, a cup of hot coffee in his hand. As he sipped, he reread the contract he had signed. His first careful reading. He had only scanned it just before signing, trusting all he had learned by watching Perry Mason on TV to make sure he wasn't being sneakily enlisted into the Israeli navy. Maybe I should have, he thought bekatedly, been more Mason-like and read more than just the first page. Ah, well, next time.

The contract said, in essence, that in exchange for performing the duties of the house dick at the Wellington Hotel, he would be paid the sum of $70,000 per annum. A two-bedroom apartment suite would also be provided for his personal use and would act as his office. All the amenities, rent, phones, cable, what have you, were to be part of the package. In a word, he now had no more monthly expenses other than food and clothing. He could live with that.

Also included was his choice of any car available from the motor pool for his personal use. A limo and driver would also be provided for his use, should the need arise for him to wine and dine some V.I.P. He could live with that, too.

It was a ten-year contract, something he had insisted on. They wanted it to be for five, but he had won the point. Mason would be proud. And this would give him a feeling of security, something he badly needed at the moment. He had a twinge that he was selling out somehow, but how bad could it be?

The hotel's owner, David Cunningham, had pleased Tag as well when he said Tag would be, in practice, his own boss and wouldn't be bothered by anyone, including Cunningham himself. Cunny, as he liked to be called, resided in Dallas, Texas, some 1,000 miles away and would only get involved if the shit hit the old faneroo. Tag liked Cunningham. He was a straight shooter, a no bullshit kind of guy. His type of guy.

The contract also included the use of all the hotel's amenities, including the pool, but the thing that Tag had almost begged Cunningham for, was in there, too. Lucy was to be his personal assistant with a salary nearly twice the crap he never paid her. She'll be pleased, he thought. He let his mind wander further along the pleaurable Lucy trail.

They had been having sex since the first day he had hired her. She was not shy when it came to sex. Christ, he thought, she fairly ripped the fucking clothes off of me! A wild woman, to be sure. And Tag made no attempt to tame her. He knew how to work in his personal likes when dealing with a wildcat.

Speak of the Devil! Tag heard Lucy's key working the outer front door. She was early, too. Was she always early? He had no idea, now that he thought about it. He usually strolled in when he was damned good and ready, which usually meant anywhere between 9:00 a.m. and noon. Sometimes later.

As he heard her settling in outside his office, he had the urge to see her lovely face and feast his eyes on that dynamite body. His crotch stirrings told him that much. And he was all ears.

"Could you come in here, Luce?" He hollered through the connecting door, which was wide open. She hollered back. "Yes, Sir, Mr. Boneher-until-her-eyes-pop-out. I'll be right there, Mr. Boneher-in-the-morning . . . when I get there, that is!"

That Luce, he thought, a regular cut-up. A real card. A natural funny lady. He liked that about her.

A dozen times a week, or more, he had to hear one of her cutesy bastardizations of his name: Mr. Boneher-good- and-hard. Mr. Boneher-all-night-long. Mr. Boneher-make-her- moana. Mr. Boneher-until-she-passes-out. That Luce. One funny fucking lady. And it didn't look as if she planned to stop doing it any time real soon. Not that he really wanted her to. It was part of their office high jinks and Tag would miss it if she suddenly stopped.

Thinking of her now, he reached in to the desk's center drawer and took out her latest poem effort. Real talent, that gal, he thought as he read it again:

The Price of Fame, by Lucy Fern

He's been buried by obscurity
So no one knows his name.
For years he managed easily
To dodge this thing called fame.

Then one day, to his surprise
His name was all the rave.
And any soul with two good eyes
Can read it on his grave.

Here lies George de Mestral 1907-1990

While walking in the woods one day
He saw the cocklebur.
It truly had a funny way
To cling to clothes and fur.

His microscope revealed the fact
Upon that fateful morn
That hooks and loops can interract,
And Velcro had been born!

Oh, yeah, he thought, real talent. His door opened, so he looked up.

Lucy entered his office and he got his first look at her of the day. He had come in early and missed his usual morning treat of seeing her at the receptionist's desk, her luscious tits on display, that bright face of hers starting his day with one of her sweet, sex-laden smiles. No matter how shitty the day that loomed ahead seemed it was going to turn out, Lucy Fern made him feel glad he had been born a man.

She now rolled and batted her eyes at him. "You want I should take some DICK-tation, Mr. Boneher-In-all-her-holes-at-once?" She smiled at him and licked her lips. He smiled back.

Then, without showing a care in the world, she quickly raised up her blouse and flashed her braless breasts at him. And, just as quickly, pulled the blouse back down. Then up and then down again. It reminded him of strobe lighting. The luscious, big-nippled orbs were there one minute, gone the next. Too fast to fully get a good look, but slow enough to get a full look. If you get the drift. Tag's mouth watered up.

Ms. Lucy Fern! Tag's faithful gal Friday. And any other day of the week, if push came to shove. A 23 year old natural redhead with a body Tag believed had been created just for sex. God, he thought, must be a tad lecherous, if not downright perverted, to have created this perfect 36-24-38 creature.

Yeah, old Tag knew her exact measurements. He had asked her for them for two reasons: He wanted to know and he didn't want God to be the only one who knew. God didn't seem to mind sharing the statistics.

Her young, firm 36D breasts reminded him of two football halves, only in pink. They pointed straight out and looked as if they were easily defying gravity's tenacious pull. The oversized areolas had a nipple dead center in each that would make even the fussiest baby salivate a river. They jutted out a good half-inch and seemed to always be on the hard side of arousal.

Put a pair of the loveliest, shapeliest legs you can conjure up on her 5' 7" frame and, while you're at it, add a firm bubble-butt ass that won't quit no time soon and you'll have a better picture of Lucy Fern.

But, as Tag might say, don't stop there, Buddy!

Add a pair of pouty lips with the bottom lip so large, so plump, so luscious, it looked as if someone had invented a thing called the lip-pillow. Any guy with blood in his veins found it hard to hear her when she talked. Their minds wandered. They couldn't take their eyes off that bottom lip as it worked on putting out the words. They were mesmerized by that bottom lip. And, as sure as shit stinks, they were picturing those lips around their cocks, that bottom lip working a magic found only in a sex fiend's idea of heaven on earth.

Yeah, Tag thought as he looked at her now, with that face, those lips, those tits, those legs, that un-fucking-believable ass, a guy don't know what to look at first. His eyes took in the Lucy Fern circuit. Face. Lips. Tits. Legs. Then back the other way. The ass could wait for later, although he had to resist the urge to ask her to turn around.

As usual, he felt his cock stir and start its familiar push against his trousers. The Lucy circuit trip could do that to a guy. Any guy. Even one in his nineties. Or in his grave. Tag could imagine some morbid mortician saying, "Ms. Fern, I'm gonna have to ask you to leave this here funeral. Your presence is making the stiff stiff!" Oh, yeah, it could happen.

"Luce, I've made a life-altering decision. I know I haven't paid you in two months . . . "

"Three, but who's counting, Mr. Boneher-without-paying?" She giggled. He smiled at her, thinking, you gorgeous cunt, you.

"OK, three. But anyway, Lu, I'm going to take a job I've been offered. Hotel Detective at the Wellington . . . "

"House DICK, Taggy? Sounds perfect for a man of your many, uh, shall we say, penile talents!" She smiled and grabbed her crotch and wiggled her hand around. "So many talents, Mr. Boneher-what's-your-name?" He laughed. She wiggled her hand some more.

"Will you be fucking serious for a mo, huh, Luce? Put that runaway libido of yours in neutral for a sec, OK?" He made an attempt at a stern face, but he couldn't help but give a little giggle. She brought her hard working hand up in a smart, drill sargeant's salute. The simple action made her breasts jiggle.

"Yes, Sir, General Boneher-with-hard-as-steel-nuts!" She held the salute. Then she wiggled her ass back and forth a bit, moving it from left to right. He laughed, but he knew the battle was over and his cock was now in command of the troops. And of him.

"Ah, fuck it, I give up, Luce. Get your beautiful redheaded ass over here, Corporal Lucy, to get your fucking orders." He rubbed his cock through trouser cloth with his right hand and beckoned her over with the left. "Is the front door locked?" He knew it was. She nodded, but remained standing where she was. She was in one of her many playful moods.

"You want fucky fucky me, soldier? No! I give you sucky sucky. No fucky fucky me. Me want sucky sucky you. Me want all day long now to sucky sucky your big fucky fucky stick. Hokay?"

She licked her bottom lip a few times, making it glisten with her saliva. Tag involuntarily shifted his ass in the chair, his hardon seemingly even harder than before. Lucy was in one of her cocksucking moods. He played along. He liked that mood.

"Only sucky sucky?" he asked. "OK, Corporal, but it better be the best sucky sucky I've ever had, Corp, and I've had the best sucky sucky in the world. Capish?" He opened his fly and fished out his large 8" cock. The head looked more swollen than usual. He wiggled it at her as she took off her blouse and tossed it on a chair. Her beautiful breasts now stood out in a perfect array of titty symmetry. Tag rubbed his cockhead and let a small moan escape his lips. Lucy spoke.

"Capish, Mr. Boneher-in-the-throat-until-she-swallows. But let me see if I have this right. You want me to suck that magnificent lollipop of yours until your eyes bug out and you forget your last name." She ran her tongue over her bottom lip again. "And you want me to give you the best blowjob you've ever had." The tongue took its bottom lip trip again. "And you want me to swallow every drop of your sticky, icky, gummy cummy without spilling a drop on the old rug. That about right?" Her tongue now made the full circuit of both lips, going around and around suggestively. She had her hands on both breasts, squeezing them.

"Fuck yeah!" He stood up, dropped his trousers and shorts and stepped out of them. He sat back down, tipping his chair back. His legs were spread out wide, and his hairy cock pointed up at the ceiling in a 45 degree angle. The tip of his cockhead was covered with precum making it look slick and shiny. He didn't wipe it off. He knew she liked licking it away.

                                               Tag Bonewell

                                               She crossed the room to him and
                                               pulled up her mini skirt as she knelt
                                               down between his muscular legs.

                                               Without underwear, her beautiful
                                               red bush, neatly trimmed in a
                                               triangular shape, was now
                                               tantalizingly before him. She
                                              grabbed the base of his manhood
with one hand and, at the same time, put her other hand
into her red bush. Tag knew she just loved masturbating while she sucked him off. He enjoyed her doing that, too. It added something sweetly lewd to the goings on.

She moved his cock so it was positioned an inch or so from her lips and then said, as if speaking into a microphone, "Hello! Hello! Mayday! Mayday! Is anyone there? If you can hear me, I'm locked in a dark room with a large and meaty, one-eyed monster and I think he wants to choke me to death! S.O.S. Suck Or Sink! Oh, no! I'm going down! Down! Down! Choke, choke! Gasp, gasp!" She lowered her head.

Tag laughed as she took his blood-gorged cockhead into her mouth, shamming choking and sputtering. "God, Luce, that fucking mouth of yours is unreal! It's like a furnace! A hot and very wet furnace."

He placed his hands on the back of her neck, urging her to take more of him into her mouth. She not only complied, she deep-throated him. "Oh, baby, no one sucks cock like you do! Those lips of yours are something else!" He moaned as she went up and down, full throating him on every fourth downward stroke, her head turning left and right, her tongue swirling all over him.

"You like sucking my cock, baby?"

She moaned an "Hmm Hmm."

"Taste good?"

"Hmm Hmm."

"Tell me, baby. Talk to me!" She removed her mouth from his prick, licked her lips and looked into his eyes. She was still fingering herself frantically.

"Oh, Taggy, I love sucking you off! You have such a magnificent cock. The head is so spongy, so hard and soft at the same time. I love the way the ridge makes my lips feel when they cross back and forth over it." She knew he loved to hear her talk about it.

"I love it when my lips touch your pubic hairs. It feels as if I'm full of your cock, gorged on it, impaled on it. Oh, shit, Tag, Darling, I'm gonna cum!" She shuddered. "Oh, God!" she whispered. "Oh, God!" Tag had been tweaking both of her distended nipples while her fingering was taking place. She shuddered again, her eyes rolling skyward. "Oh, God!' She was in an 'Oh, God' rut. Tag nipple-tweaked her wildly. It was his job, after all.

Lucy, having subsided a bit, grabbed her cock microphone again. "To anyone who can hear me, don't send help! Repeat, don't send help! I think I can tame this big ass creature all by myself, thank you. C'mere, you big fucking one-eyed monster! You've met your match! Over and out!" Tag laughed. That Lucy!

She grabbed his cock and went at it full bore, no holds barred. She sucked and slurped and licked and tongued. And salivated. She salivated so much his crotch area was sopping wet. Tag watched with lewd glee as drop after drop of her saliva cascaded down his cock shaft and added to the puddle at the base. It was so sloppy. And so hot. And so wet. And so un-fucking-real. All the while her left hand was caressing and manipulating his ballsack . . .