Author: Arthur Kay Title: Tag Bonewell and the Murder of Wendy Wilde
Summary: Wendy Wilde wrote real dirty novels, but now she's dead. Can
Tag do anything? Too many women, not enough time ... Keywords: MF cons
het humor group oral slut interr

WARNING: This story is an act of fiction that contains graphic sexual
descriptions and language. If you are a minor (under 21) or if you are
offended by this kind of material then you should stop reading now.
Any resemblance between this story and a real event is coincidental.
The participants are imaginary; their actions have no negative
consequences other than those portrayed in the story. The story is
intended for entertainment and should not be emulated in the real
world.

Tag Bonewell and the Murder of Wendy Wilde

by Arthur Kay

ALMOST NO ONE has ever heard of Ms. Jennifer Penelope Deaux-Fontaine,
but plenty of folks know her alter ego, her nom de plume, her
pseudonym, her pen name, Wendy Wilde, the wicked writer of sexually
explicit novels and articles. Yeah, that Wendy Wilde. The same offbeat
writer who had more people hating her than even Adolf Hitler could
ever have imagined.

But, as of today, everyone's heard of the woman behind the Wilde mask.
Anyone, that is, who bothered to read last night's evening paper. Or
even glance at the front page. The two-inch high headline said it all:

AUTHOR WENDY WILDE MURDERED! Story page 2. 

And, just in case you've been living in a cave for ten years, a full
page photograph below the headline showed Ms. Wilde, or Ms. Deaux-
Fontaine, at a nudist camp and as naked as a jaybird. She was sporting
a wide shit-eating grin that just screamed out how much she loved
being sans clothing under the California sun. There were two other
people in the photo, but they had been cropped in such a way no one
could tell who they were.

Because the newspaper had thoughtfully airbrushed out her important
private parts, the photo made her look ghastly and grotesque. It was
obvious the retoucher had had a hard time trying to hide those very
large breasts of hers. In the final result, she looked as if she had
had a twin mastectomy performed, a bad one at that. Why they simply
didn't just show her face is beyond any guess. Of course, nude
pictures, even sloppy looking ones, do sell more papers.  

The photo caption read: Wendy Wilde, second from left, bared it all in
1962 at the Suncatcher's Nudist Camp, San Francisco, CA. Story page 2.

1962. Yes, a long time ago. Ms. Fontaine was thirty-five years old in
the photo, which means she was pushing sixty-five when her body was
found.

Her publisher and lifelong friend, Hamilton Worthy, Ham or Hammy to
his friends, was also her confidante at the time of her unscheduled
demise. He was quoted saying just how much he was going to miss his
longtime friend and best-selling author.

For over thirty years, Hammy did his best to keep her real identity a
secret. His best was good enough up until a year ago, when some hacker
tracked her down through the internet and began e-Mailing her threats.

Who he is isn't yet known, but one thing is; the cat was now out of
the old bag. And yesterday, someone had shot the cat. Or the old bag,
if you want to get crude about it. And she was shot three times with
great and deadly accuracy. In her very own suite at the Wellington
Hotel. And with much malice aforethought. 

* * * * * *

"YOU TAG BONEWELL?" Tag looked up from his desk. A man stood in the
doorway. A man in his forties, with brown hair and brown, sad looking
eyes. He looked to be around the six foot tall mark. He also looked
quite fit, with not a sign of flab on him, if you didn't count the
slight belly paunch, that is.

The guy was wearing an inexpensive, off-the-rack, dark gray suit and
an equally run-of-the-mill white shirt. His tie was a nothing to rave
about solid black. Sensible shiny black patent leather shoes finished
the sartorial picture. Tag smelled cop.

Tag said, "That's right, sir. How may I help you?"

"I'm Detective Hunger, Jack Hunger, I'm here about the murder."
Murder?

"What murder?" If Tag looked genuinely puzzled, he was. He hadn't read
the newspaper yet today.

Detective Hunger fished a small note pad out of an inside suit pocket.
He looked down at it. "Guess you haven't heard yet. Well, anyway, the
vic is one Jennifer Penelope Deaux-Fontaine, aka Wendy Wilde. One of
your room maids, a gal named . . . " He looked down at his notes.
"Freda, called it in. About an hour ago." 

He approached Tag's desk. "Mind if I sit?" Tag motioned him to take
the chair in front of the desk. Freda flashed briefly through his
mind. They had only done it twice now, but each time had been
fantastic. She had that European . . . 

When Detective Hunger was seated, he said, "Ah, that feels good! Been
on my tootsies all morning . . . now, I came by your little office
place here because I like to work with the house dick when a hotel's
involved. I'm savvy to the hotels need to protect their rep, and I
find it works out better for all parties concerned, Tag, if I give the
house cop a headsup. May I call you Tag?" 

Tag nodded. "Good. And why don't you just call me Jack, without the
detective up front. OK?" Tag nodded again. He liked Jack. The man had
real down-to-earth class.

"Tell me, Tag, you ever read any of Wilde's, uh, stuff?" It was said
innocently enough, but Tag could read between the lines. The man was
setting his stage up.

"No, can't say I have, Jack. Anyway, I prefer the hands-on approach to
sex. It's a quirk of mine." He grinned at the cop.

The detective smirked at him, cocked one eye, and said, "You ever
bring your quirk up to suite 912 any time in recent memory?"

"Ha ha! No Jack, I make it a rule not get too quirky with the paying
guests." He smiled. He knew lying to a cop was a fool's game, but he
felt even if Jack found out about Mergie, or Greta, or both for that
matter, it wouldn't mean much. Not to Jack, who was now grinning at
him as if to say, yeah, sure, and I'm the king of Prussia!

Tag said, "I was in blue, too, Jack, a few years back. Six years in.
Threw it in to do some private gumshoeing, but you know how that goes,
feast or famine. Well, I had a feast of the famine, if you get me." He
grinned at the detective.

"Yeah, Tag, I know all about it. Heard about you, too. You were a wee
bit of a hotdogger, I'd say, and had a mite of trouble following
police protocol. From what I've heard, you were downright naughty at
times." He grinned at Tag.

"Guilty as charged, Jack. Now, tell me, what is it you need from me?"

"Nothiing really, but I thought you might like to come along with me
when I enter the Wilde suite," He looked at his notes. "Suite 912,
and, who knows? You just might spot something these old, tired eyes of
mine miss. Of course you shouldn't . . . "

"Touch anything. Yeah, I know, Jack, but I do keep disposable latex
gloves in my desk." He opened the desk's front drawer, took out a box
and held it up. "See?"

Hunger stood up. "Good boy! Shall we go? On the way, I'll fill you in
on this Wilde woman, and I mean wild in the feral sense of the word. I
popped her name into my PC's search engine and, man, she was a pip!
C'mon, I'll tell you all about it on the way."

As they passed by Lucy's desk, Tag said, sounding most businesslike,
"Miss Fern, hold all my calls, I'll be out a while." Then, to Hunger,
he added, "God, I've always wanted to say that!" Hunger said, "And now
you have. Come, I'll tell you all about her publisher, one Mr.
Hamilton Worthy. A real gent, that one." 

Tag sensed there was a Colombo side to DetectiveHunger. He was cagier
than he appeared to be. He had made it seem to Tag that he had just
arrived on the scene, but now it looked as if he had taken the time to
talk to one Hamilton Worthy. And who else?

You're slick, Detective Hunger, Tag thought, real slick . . .

* * * * * *

SUITE 912 was unoccupied, if you don't count the corpse of Wendy
Wilde. Which had three neat, closely placed holes in its chest. Hunger
pegged it as a .22 calibre job. Tag agreed. They had found the body in
a small room that Wilde had used as an office.

She was lying in the center of the room, on her back, totally nude,
with a large white towel lying alongside her. Her hair and the towel
were damp. Hunger took a quick glance into the bathroom. One look at
the wet tub told him she had obviously just come out of the shower,
mere minutes before her killer had pumped three into her.

Her wig, a brunette one, was pushed forward and covering her right
eye. She reminded Tag of Veronica Lake, a sultry, sexy actress from
the 1940's.

Hunger asked Tag if he would go through her desk while he did whatever
it was he planned to do. Tag, with his brand spanking new latex gloves
on, opened the top middle desk drawer and whistled. "Jack, I've got
a.45 here. With a very expensive-looking pearl handle. What you want I
should do with it?" Tag looked down at the pearl handle. It looked
like a custom job, with a purple capital W embedded into each side.

"Empty the clip, so some kids don't get to it loaded, and just leave
it there, would you?" Tag would. He stripped the clip and slid it back
into the gun's handle. Then he had a question for Jack.

"Jack, how come this place isn't crawling in blue? You breaking cop
protocol?" A little tit for tat.

"Look who's telling me about protocol! Listen, Mr. Pot, this Mr.
Kettle is going by the book. This is a closed crime scene, of which I
am in charge. Now, because I prefer to have an early look-see, before
there are two dozen pairs of shiny shoes mucking it up, I tell
forensics to wait for my call. They'll be along shortly."

"Yeah, Jack, but you don't even have anyone guarding the . . ."

"Door? He's on his way. I called just before I went into your office.
Any more question, nosy?" Tag had none that he could think of. For
now, at least.

The two men checked the place very carefully and, besides some of her
published books and some paper files, they found nothing to speak of.
No weapon, no casings, no perp hiding in a closet. 

While Hunger was placing the necessary calls, Tag wandered back into
the living room and went over to the large bookcase that housed her
published writings and personal reading matter. 

The first book of hers he laid his hands on, was titled, Pandora's
Box. He opened it to somewhere in the middle and began reading.

Janet moaned. The large cock inside her making her do so, and making
her feel full, packed with him. He pulled halfway out and plunged it
back in, all the way to its base. Janet screamed, "Aayyyeeeeeee!"
Charlie then . . . 

Tag flipped a few pages and read some more. 

As Jose's hot, boiling cum hit the back of her throat, some of it
actually going down to her stomach, Carla spluttered. The next blast,
equally as strong as the first, seemed to fill her mouth up. She
swallowed quickly, as if not to do so would drown her in . . . 

He flipped a few more pages.

The feeling overtook her. "Ooooh! Sue screamed out." Then she . . . 

Then a voice behind Tag spoke.

"That was her first, Pandora's Box. Her best, too, in my opinion." Tag
turned and saw the man. Tall, elderly, with jet-black hair that had a
white swirl running down the middle. The hair reminded Tag of a skunk.
The man himself reminded him of nervousness. He was also impeccably
dressed in a tone-downed medium-gray suit and vest. It looked custom-
made. The man had the overall look of money, and lots of it.

Tag said, playing real dumb, "She read a lot of this type of, uh,
literature then, I take it, sir. Bit steamy reading for a lady of her
caliber, don't you think?" That sounded dumb enough to Tag.

"Read? Oh, I see, you don't know, do you? No, I suppose you don't. Ms.
Deaux-Fontaine wrote that book and four more just like it under her
pen name, Wendy Wilde. You'll find her photograph on the back cover."
The man twirled his fingers, a signal to Tag to turn the book over.

Tag turned the book over and saw the same face he had just recently
looked at, only this time she looked much happier. Scrawled across the
bottom of the picture, and looking as if it was written by her, was
XXX Wendy Wilde. He thought: Hot kisses from a corpse, now. Then he
realized it could also stand for the triple-X used in the porn trade.
Both seemed to fit, and Tag surmised that that was probably the whole
idea.

"You must be Hamilton Worthy." Tag said. "Detective Hunger mentioned
you to me. Said I'd be bumping into you soon enough."

The man nodded. "Guilty, sir. And you are . . . ?"

"Tag Bonewell, Mr. Worthy, and I'm at your service, sir. I'm the
Wellington's house detective." God, he thought, this guy brings out
the formal in me. I'll be bowing at the waist any minute now and
sticking a dainty pinky out whenever I drink my Scotch.

"Then you're not the police. Where are they? Shouldn't they be here by
now?"

Tag thought of the body still lying in the office room. "Well,
Detective Hunger is somewhere else in the apartment. I'm surprised you
missed him on your way in. But you shouldn't really be here, sir.
Crime scene and all. Why don't you say hello to Detective Hunger on
your way out? He'd like that, sir." 

Worthy got the message and, without even a sweet goodbye, turned and
left. Oh, well, Tag thought, that went smoothly. He then heard
multiple voices coming from the other room. 

The forensics team, it seemed, had arrived . . .

* * * * * *

TWO DAYS LATER, and long after the body had been removed and forensics
had crawled all over suite 912, taking every thing that wasn't nailed
down with them, including her PC, Detective Hunger paid Tag another
visit.

After some idle chit-chat, Hunger said, "Tag, you should see the video
tapes we took out of Wilde's place! Dozens of 'em, with people doing
all kinds of nasty stuff on them. And sweet little Wendy is on every
one. Au naturel, to be sure." He laughed as he added, "And they're all
labeled, ha ha ha, research!"

Tag chuckled, and then said, "Research, huh? Well, Jack, I guess some
writers take their work extra seriously." He laughed.

"So do we cops, Tag. Hell, I've had to force myself to sit through at
least, ha ha ha, a half dozen of 'em so far. Taking copious notes,
too, mind you." He grinned at Tag.

"I'll just bet! And with a very hard pencil, no doubt!" He chuckled.

"The hardest! Well, at least for the first twenty minutes of note
taking. Then I have to drag it into the John to put a new point on
it!" They both laughed, heartily, with Tag rapping the edge of his
desk with an open hand several times.

Then Hunger said, "Say, Tag, how's about I send you over a handful of
'em? Pardon the pun. That is, if you can find a decent pencil in that
mess you call a desk."

"Great, Jack, I'd like that. And, you know, since I became the house
dick around here, I haven't had to sharpen my own pencil in a while,
so it'll be a nice change of pace. It'll take me back to my roots . ..
pun intended." He chuckled.

Hunger grinned, then said, "Yeah, I guess as house dick, it wouldn't
surprise me to know you have a pencil sharpener on every floor . . .
even the penthouses, eh?" Was Hunger already onto Mergie? Or Greta?
Hunger was fishing for information of the prurient kind, but Tag got
cagey with him.

"Well, detective, I ain't sayin' anything more without my lawyer
present, but as you yourself well know, what the fuck good is a pencil
with a dull tip?"

The boys laughed it up a bit before Hunger took his leave, promising
the films would be sent tomorrow and, this afternoon, some books and
notes Wilde had made. 

"Look her books and notes over, Tag, and see what you make of 'em.
Maybe you'll spot something this harried old copper missed. Never
know." He left Tag's office and Tag could hear him stopping by Lucy's
desk.

Through the open door, though Tag couldn't see them, he heard Hunger
say to Lucy, with a laugh in his voice, "Does that slave driver boss
of yours make you sharpen his pencil?" If he only knew, Tag thought.
Then again, Hunger is a good detective.

"Huh?" Tag heard Lucy say, then quickly add, "Oh, I getcha! For your
information, Detective Hunger, Mr. Boneher-all-the-time needs lotsa
pencil sharpening. He's a diligent note taker, don'tcha know?" She
giggled. That Luce, thought Tag, smart as a whip.

Hunger said, "I know, Ma'am, and it takes one to know one!" He then
went out the front door, laughing loudly on his exit.

"Luce?" Tag hollered out. "Could you come in her a sec? And bring your
best sharpener with you, would you, please?"

He heard her yell back, "Be right in, slave driver boss. Just gonna
lock the front door first and turn on the answer machine . . . "

* * * * * *

AS LUCY ENTERED, she saw Tag was naked from the waste down, his semi-
hard penis in evidence. This signaled he was either in the mood for a
blowjob or a quick doggy style. The choice, she knew, was all hers.
Tag, that darling, was easy that way.

"Well, Mr. Boneher-in-the-office, is that a pencil in your hand or are
you just glad to see me?" She giggled. As she approached him, he said,
"Both!"

She reached out and gave his pencil a squeeze. "My, my, my, you've got
one big pencil there, sir." She looked at him. "Why don't I just put
my sharpener at your disposal and you can stick that big, old pencil
right in and get a good tip on it?"

"Mmm," he said. "Sounds like a plan to me." She assumed her familiar
position.

Bent over the desk, as she was, Lucy got playful from the getgo. Right
after Tag had pushed his throbbing cock into her just an inch or so,
letting it soak, she said, "Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr! Rrrrrrrrrrrr!"
It was her imitation of a pencil sharpener. It sounded a mite hoarse
and guttural, raspy even. Tag played right back at her.

"Sounds like it needs a little oil, Luce!" He chuckled.

"Just you wait, Mr. Boneher-from-behind, it'll soon be awash in oil
and purring like a kitten!" She giggled girlishly. Then she rotated
her hips a bit.

"I hope so!" Tag said. "Wouldn't want the tip chewed up now, would
we?" He plunged to the base into her, pulled back and did it a few
more times. Then he heard her say:

"Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr! Purrrrrrrr!" She rotated her ass with each
purrrrrrrr, making small and sensuous, clockwise circles.

"Oooh!" Tag said as he plunged to the hilt once more. "That's one fine
fucking pencil sharpener you have there, lady!" He moaned hoarsely.
Then he plunged deeply in and out a dozen more times or so, her pencil
sharpener rotating all the while. 

With a firm grip on both her hips, he jackhammer fucked her. Small
groans, deliberately toned down in decibels, came out of her. Although
a room separated them from the outer front door, they both knew it was
best not to take the chance of being heard. Then Tag slowed it down
and finally stopped altogether, his cock half in and half out.

He watched, fascinated, as her pussy lips chewed their way along the
cock shaft toward its base. It reminded him of a hairy mouth. She
moved herself back and forth this way for a few hearty nibbles and,
sensing he wasn't moving at all, said, "Just like a man, a fucking man
at that, let momma do all the heavy work!"

"Ha ha!" he said as he helped momma out by pushing it all the way in,
his groin slapping into her fleshy buttocks, and then all the way out.
Poppa was back to work.

"Ooh, daddy, I'm glad I woke you!" Lucy spit out breathlessly. They
continued this way for a dozen or more eight hunka-dunka-inch-deep
plunges by him.

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 . . . 

* * * * * *

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 . . .

He grabbed the next book, Brother Balling and, after glancing at the
cover, turned it over to find the sales blurb. This one said it was,
once more, from her real-life experiences. At aged 12, with her
brother, Hal Fontaine. Hal was 15 at the time. They did everything
imaginable up until she turned 16. 

Tag took book three from the pile, Doggy Doing!

Again, it was from her real-life experiences. This time with a well-
hung St. Bernard. And three other breeds. A dog trainer named Faith
was also mentioned. Wilde had experimented with poochy love for a full
year, getting it doggy style once a week. 

He took the next book, Lover's Loops.

This covered her, you got it, real-life experiences with a sex slave
master named The Big Whipper. For a year, twice a month. Seems old
Whip had a bevy of willing sex slaves at his beck and call. Even had
his own newsletter: The Whipper Says! And a Web site. 

Tag went for the next book, Pleasure Pains.

Real-life again. With another so-called master named El Sade (He
pronounced it ell sod). Wilde put up with El Sod's pain and
humiliation of her for another one of those full years. Four times a
month. 

It seemed to Tag that Wilde did everything by the year. A year doing
this, one doing that. Of course, he realized, it could all just be
hype, something to snag more sales. Or, could be, a mix of truth and
lies. 

He was down to pile two. He picked up the Stiffing Stiffs! sheet,
which showed both covers printed.

Tag read the back cover blurb. It mentioned necrophilia, corpse
fucking. He surmised the book was finished, but had yet to be
published, other than these two covers. 

It was, unlike all the previous, not from her real-life experience,
but was from interviews with one Mr. Michael Elver Dodwright Halvers,
a convicted mortician. His cosmetician, Julie Havens, caught him,
flagrante delicto as it were, with the very dead blond wife of the
Mayor, no less. 

She testified in court that she had seen Mr. Halver’s ass buggering,
her words, the dead woman. For some unknown reason, Tag turned the
covers over. There, on the back, was a sheet of paper, neatly typed,
and Scotch taped in place.

It fleshed out the bye-bye paragraph. The last paragraph in the book.
The one geared to sell her next, upcoming book, Kissing Kiddies, which
she said was a scathing diatribe on pedophilia, blah, blah, blah.
There was some other stuff about publishers and books and such, blah,
blah, blah, but Tag felt too tired to read the whole long thing now. 

He reached out and picked up the cover design board, with the artist's
rough layout for book seven, Kissing Kiddies. Tag yawned. Lordy, he
thought, Lucy just had to wake me in the middle of the night, didn't
she?

It was a mock up on illustration board. Tag flipped it over and saw a
handwritten note attached. He read, his eyes tiring, the blue ink
swimming around.

Cov. design approved by me, but plot and dialogue in very rough
outline form. Notify Marty: Will have finished, polished ms. to him no
later than Mon, the 5th of next month. Should be 22 chapters, one ch.
more than last. 

Tag yawned and grabbed one of the typed pages. At the top of the
sheet, Wilde had typed: Future novel ideas, book 8 and beyond. Inform
Marty of my next project.

Tag noticed what looked like a possible title for each novel, typed in
all caps. As he read, he could almost picture the covers the artist
would eventually dream up.

8: LOVE LIPS: Lesbianism. To be worked out with Marcy M. and Tricia H.

There were to be interviews with two other unnamed women from a
Northeast swinger's group. Wilde, it seemed, had completed only rough
outline notes.

9: PEE PALS: Water Sports. 

She had only some basic research completed. She planned to contact a
guy, who advertised on the Web for a woman, any woman, to swallow his
piss. She wouldn't? Thought Tag. Then again . . .

There was more, but Tag had had it. It would wait . . . 

* * * * * *

THE NEXT DAY, Tag found six video films on his desk. Lucy had brought
them in. There were three large manila envelopes, with two films in
each. She had placed a pink Post-It note on top of the pile. In her
scrawly handwriting, it said, These came by messenger, Mr. Boneher-
well-and-hearty -- I'll bring the popcorn! But not tonight -- I'll be
eating French! Among other things!

He hollered out. "Hey, secretary, anything important on my calendar
for the next four hours?" 

"No, why?" She knew why. He was turned on by the thought of the tapes
and by her upcoming evening with Jack. To Lucy, Tag was way, way
predictable at times.

He came out of his office and approached her desk. "These sex tapes
are hotel work, Lucy, part of my . . . uh . . . job, you could say.
How about we take them to my place and you can help me . . . uh . . .
analyze them. For clues. OK?" 

Sometimes, Lucy didn't have to be asked twice . . .

* * * * * *

LIGHTS! CAMERA! ACTION! ROLL 'EM! QUIET ON THE SET! The first of the
six Wilde films started playing. The lights in Tag's Porno Theatre
were down low. A large bowl of popcorn stood at the ready. The
audience of two, unlike most audiences, was naked and sitting up
against a sea of fluffy pillows. A wooden tray, placed between them on
the bed, held two drinks. As the blackness on the screen turned into
people, Lucy placed a hand on his limp cock. She gave it a playful
squeeze.

Then there she was, the Wilde woman, looking much younger than Tag had
seen her looking lately. But just as naked. In a room full of naked
people. She was down on her knees sucking on a large dick, a very
large dick. And obviously enjoying herself.

"She was very pretty, Tag."

"Yeah, she was, wasn't she?" He thought of her in suite 912. Still
pretty, but in an elderly and wrinkly sort of way.

Then the guy on the screen walked off, camera left. Another guy soon
appeared, camera right, and, without a word, put his cock, an average
sized one, into her mouth.

She sucked for a while and the scenario repeated itself. Guy leaves.
Guy comes in. Tag lost count around guy seven, or maybe eight. One
thing was for sure; Wendy Wilde was sucking a lot of different cocks.
And she kept on sucking, just as fast as the guys would appear and
place it in her.

"Jesus, Tag, I've counted eighteen different dicks so far! Unless,
that is, some guys made pigs of themselves and came back for seconds.
Two dicks looked as if I had seen them earlier. You?" She squeezed his
penis gently as if asking it at the same time.

"Yeah, some dicks did look like repeaters, but shit, who cares? She's
got some mouth on her, it never tires! Look at her, she's still going
strong!" And she was. 

"Christ, Tag, my jaw would be numb by now! They could pull all my
teeth out and I wouldn't feel a thing!" He laughed and hugged her to
him.

Tag said, "Dentists should hear about this!" She giggled, her body
shaking.

She said, "Now, Mrs. Frangapani, open wide for all twenty of them and
it won't hurt a bit!" 

"Spit and rinse after each, please!" They both laughed a good one,
both shaking all over. And the Wilde gal was still going at it. Both
Lucy and Tag had totally lost count by now.

Then, amazingly, three more men in a row took center stage, one after
the other. In the background, all this while, many naked couples could
be seen doing lord knows what. A thought struck Lucy.

"None of the men have cum yet! You notice that?" He had, but before he
could say word one about it, a guy on the screen contradicted Lucy.

Wendy Wilde was seated on the carpeted floor, her head tilted slightly
back, with her mouth wide open. Her tongue stuck out, its edges folded
in, forming a tongue cup. A guy was jerking off; his cock's head less
than an inch from the tongue cup. He moved forward, toward the tongue,
still beating himself, and shot his load, a large one, right into the
cup's bowl, filling it to overflowing.

Tag and Lucy watch, mesmerized, as Wilde's tongue took its huge cum
load into her mouth. She then made a swallowing motion with her
throat.

"Mmmm, he's a cummer" Lucy said. Tag just watched as another guy
replaced the guy who had just filled up the cup. This new guy followed
the jerk it off trail. In less than a minute, he dropped a load,
slightly smaller, into Wilde's wet tongue cup.

This jerk it off, cum in cup, swallow routine went on for four more
guys before Lucy said, "That's six! I'm counting this time!"

"That's seven!" she said.

"Eight!" she said.

"Nine and counting!" she said. 

"Ten!" said Tag.

"Eleven!" said Lucy. They were now taking turns in the cumathon event,
which went on and on and on. Finally, it ended. Whew! With Tag saying
the last number.

"Twenty fucking seven!" If he seemed shell-shocked, it's because he
was.

Lucy said, excitedly, "Let's see, shall we, Tag? If each guy dropped
only a teaspoon, averaging it out, that's twenty-seven of them. And,
since there are three teaspoons to a tablespoon . . . that's nine
tablespoons! Wow! That's a full cup of cum with a tablespoon on the
side. Holy shit!" She sat up and looked at him. "Holy fucking shit!
And it could be more! Most of them looked as if they hadn't cum in
days, maybe weeks!" 

Tag laughed, then said, "But it could be less, too. Some of those
cumming cocks looked familiar again. Repeaters, maybe, eh?"

"Don't matter. Either way, she swallowed a lot of cum. Oooh, I envy
the bitch!"

"You'd like swallowing that many guys?"

"Hell, yeah! Repeaters or not! It looked cummy yummy to me!"

"Want me to get a bunch of guys, who don't know you, naturally, from
my old precinct? I was friendly with a lot of cops there, young and
old. Never knew one to refuse an offer from me. Not when it came from
the heart."

"God, that sounds tempting. But I don't make decisions when I'm in
heat. And I'm in heat right now. Let me think on it, all right? Now,
shall we fuck . . . ?

* * * * * *

THEY FUCKED, and then watched another film. The first half hour had
Wilde getting doubled by pairs of guys, one pair after another, a cock
in one end of her, and a cock in the other. It was a repetition of the
first film, in essence, but with a different motif, the pairing.

Then a third guy got added to the scene. He took the only open orifice
he could find, her anus, and things went on this way for another dozen
scenes or so, the guys changing, as conditions demanded of them.

Another film. Wilde was seen sucking off a big St. Bernard dog. The
dog was very well endowed, with at least 7 inches on him. Then the dog
fucked her. Lucy wasn't too keen on this particular film, so she
suggested they load in number four.

Number four was girl on girl. This, too, didn't sit too well with
Lucy. Although with Tag . . .

Five had Wilde getting gangbanged by six, strong looking black men.
All except one of them was over eight inches in length. The runt, at
around seven inches, made up for his shortcomings by being an extra
wide model. 

Tag said, "You ever do black, Luce?"

"Not so far, but I'm still young!" She giggled.

They watched Wilde first give all six guys cum-swallowing blowjobs.
Each time, showing her cum soaked mouth, opened wide, to the camera.
Then she took them, one guy at a time, with the others standing by and
watching, onto the bed and fucked the lucky stiff. The screams coming
out of Wilde as she fucked each man, left no doubt she loved it, and
loved it immensely. The five guys around the bed were playing with
themselves, getting ready for their turn at the Wilde woman.

Film six showed Wilde lying on a bed, masturbating with a large, pink
vibrator. She was moaning and groaning, but could hardly be heard over
the vibrator's loud motor. Tag wasn't into this that much, so he fast-
forwarded, hoping for action of a different nature. There was none.

"Whew!" said Lucy. "That lady isn't shy! I've gotta read some of her
books. If she writes half as well as she fucks, I'll certainly be a
new and devoted fan of hers."

A question popped into Tag's head.

"Tell me, hon, and you can lie if you want, has the sweet detective
man asked you out?" He waited, and for some reason, his dick stirred.

"You mean Jack?" She let it just hang there, its meaning quite clear.

"Jack is it? I guess he has asked you out then. You accept?" Dickie
stir some more. Go down, you shit, he thought, I'm way too tired.

"Yeah, for a French restaurant date. And I know you're not jealous,
because he, quite gentlemanly, told me he had your permission to ask
me out. You farming me out now, Taggie Poo? A little free-lance on the
side?"

"Of course not, I just felt I had no right to . . . "

"Right, schmight! We're always honest with each other, chummy. I said
yes because I think he'd be a good fuck! He's older than you, but
shit, when I first met you, Tag, at 23, I thought you were ancient and
probably had a shriveled up old cock with gray pubic hairs. I fucked
you that first time, Taggy Waggy, simply out of curiosity!"

"Gee, thanks, Lucy. We seniors need all the ass we can get our feeble
hands on. Now, girl, tell me more about your impressions of detective
Hunger." Curiosity speaks.

"Well, where should I begin? Oh, his cock is average in length, but
it's extremely wide, with an oversized head on it and . . . "

"Wait! How the fuck you know that? He whip it out? Right at your desk?
Or did you two take a quickie afternoon delight?"

"None of the above, Mr. Boneher-all-the-time. He tried to hide it,
really tried, but I couldn't miss that big bulge in his suit pants.
And, it being a very thin summer suit, I could see the entire outline
of his cock, including the flanged ridge. It was wide, baby, really
wide." She squeezed up against him. "Yummy wide!"

"God, Luce, I wish I could fuck you again right now, but . . . "

* * * * * *

THE NEXT DAY, Lucy was at her desk when Tag rolled in. They had left
his apartment together, but he had a bank deposit to make. Lucy
greeted him with a warm smile.

Tag opened with, "You look happy, kitten, your date with Jack work out
or was he from Hunger?"

"Cute, boss, but trite and stale, too. He took me to Chez Pierre's.
Great food and all. Then we went to my place. And, for your inquiring
mind that just has to know, yes, we fucked. He's a good fuck, too,
very loving and attentive to my womanly needs. But . . . "

"But? He tell you he was gay, or bi-sexual? Into smelling toilets?" 

"Hush, child. None of those. He's pure hetero, unlike some guys I
know. Hee hee! But . . . he's looking for a serious relationship. One
of those let's-settle-down-and-raise-babies kind of relationships.
He's sweet and lonely. Misses that thing called marriage. Still in
love with his ex-wife, I believe. So I told him my views on the
matter. I said to him, let's just be fucking pals, OK? With an
emphasis on the word fucking."

"That sit okay with him?"

"Seemed to. Time will tell." She seemed slightly saddened to Tag. He
made an attempt to cheer her up a bit.

"Well, darling, you now have, heh heh, a house dick, a Viking dick,
and a cop dick. You sure as shit won't have any long, lonely winter
evening regretting missed chances at the whoopee ring."

"You're right. Three cockies! A first time for me, Tag. But funny, it
doesn't seem like three!" She looked as if she was thinking real hard.

"Well, beginner, you've only done two of us in one day. Wait'll you do
all three of us in one day, then you'll get the full import of it. I
want dibs on the evening, OK? I do my best fucking work after five."
He laughed.

"Mmmm, I'm picturing something. What if I had you all . . . "

"At the same time? I'm game, but I'm not sure the Viking has the
stomach for it, or the cop, the heart. Should we send them an e-Mail
form to fill out?" He chuckled.

"No, you're right about the cop. He's not of your liberal-minded ilk.
And, as flatfoot-brained as he seems to me, he'd probably lose respect
for me. Better to keep him in the dark, happy and sweet."

"Fine by me, honey, mum's the word, but if you ever want to try your
first threesome, I know two old boys who'll . . . "

* * * * * *

TAG WAS AT HIS DESK, the Wilde stuff just sitting there, nagging at
him. Ah, well, he thought, time's a wasting. He sighed, picked up a
sheet and found where he had left off.

10: GANG GROPES: Gangbangs. Consensual. There were no notes at all. 

11: GLORY HOLE GALS: Glory Holes. And glory hole parties. Again, no
notes.

12. CUCKOLDING: Cuckolders are men who enjoy watching helplessly while
their wives or girlfriends have sex with strange men. Contact
JayF12@Yahoo.com. He has films and is willing to let me observe. 

What fun, thought Tag. I never get the good invites! 

He picked up the handwritten page. It was written in blue ballpoint
ink, in what looked to be from a woman's delicate hand. He could see
what Wilde had probably known very well: The Welle wouldn't run dry
for ages. 

Rape scenarios, hypnosis themes, vampire love, snuff films, blackmail
scenarios, black magic sex, witches, mind control, Tantric love,
Chinese love baskets, drink/drug stories, coercion, gay,
hermaphrodites, cross dressers, trans-genders, sluts of all stripes,
enema lovers, pregnant sex, cream pies, lactating lasses, fisting,
safe sex, masturbation techniques, interracial, sex toys,

Wilde had ended the long list with a comma, as if there was surely
more out there to come. Tag tried to think. Nope, if there's anything
else, I sure as shit can't think of it! Then he thought of one: Space
alien fucking! Why not? He mused, they probably have three-headed
cocks! That are two feet long! With all three heads the size of
cantaloupes! Ha ha, I'd buy that book! 

Then he thought of one more: Midget sex. Nah, he thought, who'd ever
believe midgets have sex. Dwarfs, I can buy. Hey! Fairy tale sex! He
was on a roll now, feeling stupid, but inspired. But enough was
enough. He went back to work.

Tag didn't think Wilde would make a book out of each and every one of
the categories. She'd probably combine some here and there, or use
them over a few times, but even so, she had enough sexual fodder to
keep her busy all the way right up to her death of natural causes in
her old age. Some fucker, Tag thought, didn't want to wait for those
natural causes to naturally kick in.

Tag rubbed his eyes. He'd had it. He stood up, tossed the handwritten
page onto the pile and headed for the door. Anything else could wait
for later.

"Luce, I'm bushed. If you need me for any emergency, my sleeping body
can be found in suite 912. All right?" He yawned, stifling it with a
tired hand.

"No prob, Tag, go get your beauty nap. But, say, isn't that the murder
suite? And you know what they say about murderers, don'tcha? They
always return to . . . "

"Yeah, yeah, well fuck him, or her, I don't give a rat's ass as long
as they're quiet."

"Oh, I get you, boss, you want a considerate murderer!"

"Why not? Now, if you'll . . . "

"Get outta here, Taggy Waggy, I can hold down the fort and . . . "

He didn't wait to hear the rest. He was out the door . . . 

* * * * * *

IN SUITE 912, Tag had no trouble finding the bed. Someone had
thoughtfully left it in the very room it belonged in. He removed his
suit jacket, hung it carefully over the back of a chair, and fell
backwards onto the bed. His shoulder holster was still in place. With
the Glock snuggled nicely inside it. He was asleep in less than a
minute. But he didn't sleep peacefully.

A fucking yellow gnome with purple eyes kept taunting him. The ugly
creature looked hundreds of years old, if he was a day. Its face
looked vaguely familiar, but Tag couldn't place it. Then the little
beast did a magic trick.

He went from raggedy old clothes to brand new duds. High-class duds.
With spats and a top hat. He started dancing all around, just like
Fred Astaire, only better.

Tag went after the gnome, not knowing why. It just seemed like the
thing to do. But the wily shit was too quick for him. It was always
just out of his reach. Then it did another magic trick. It turned a
tree stump into a ten-year-old boy. A naked ten-year-old boy.

Then the gnome waved a hand in the air and another tree stump
appeared. Right in front of the boy. Then the gnome spoke. His voice
sounded high-pitched and very snotty.

"Wiggy Woggy, now bend right over and let me take you in this clover!"

After that was said, the boy bent over the tree stump, his little
naked butt up in the air. Tag tried to yell at him, but no words came
out. He also tried to move, but couldn't. He watched, helplessly, as
the slimy gnome mounted the boy from behind and inserted his long,
thin, yellow penis into the boy's rectum. The boy seemed to be
screaming something, but Tag couldn't hear him.

"Uggy Muggy, this is such glee, but before I cum I gotta pee!" With
that, the nasty bastard started pissing in the boy's rectum. It flowed
out around the gnomes yellow dick and glistened up the meadow's grass
floor. Tag felt sick inside. And helpless.

As the gnome started ramming in and out of the poor kid's rectum, Tag,
in his sleep, closed his eyes. But it was no use. He could still see.
Right through his eyelids. Then the gnome seemed as if he was
finished, for he stood up and came over to where Tag was standing. He
danced around a bit before settling down right in front of Tag, less
than three feet away.

Winking his left purple eye at Tag, he said, "Willa Nilla, a dollar, a
diller, I've just toldya who's the killer!" Tag felt confused,
bewildered, at sea. What had the beastly beast meant? What killer?
What killer? What killer? What . . . 

* * * * * *

IT WAS A NOISE that woke Tag up. And, at the same time as he opened
his eyes, he knew what the nasty gnome was trying to tell him. He now
knew who killed Wendy Wilde. And he even knew why. And he knew where
the noise had come from. The room Wilde had used as an office. The
room she had died in. And he knew who had caused that noise. The
killer himself.

He slipped out of bed, the mattress creaking loudly, and sought out
the Glock. He was a tad too late. There stood the killer, at the
doorway, a gun in his hand and it was pointed right at him. 

Tag said, "Hello, Hammy, fancy meeting you here." Tag looked at the
gun in Worthy's hand. It was a .45 caliber, the kind with a big punch
attached.

Worthy said, "Tag, Tag, Tag, caught you sleeping on the job. In more
ways than one. Now, you just be a nice boy and toss that big old gun
of yours onto the bed. By your fingertips only, please." Tag complied.

"Now," Worthy said. "Why don't you come into the room the old bat used
an office and you can watch me hunt for my missing thingie. OK?" 

"Sure, Ham, I like watching a man sweat while he works." Tag grinned
at the man. Worthy grinned right back.

"Oh, I won't be sweating, Tag. I'm too refined for that nonsense. Come
now, move it along, Tagman. And no funnies." The gun moved in a small
circle, a circle aimed right at Tag's chest.

In Wilde's small office, Worthy ordered Tag to take a seat. "You just
sit nicely for me while I figure out where it is. OK?" Tag nodded, but
he had a question.

"Tell me, Ham, even if you find what I think you're looking for, don't
you think the cops have a copy of it? Shit, I think I've read it all
ready, so I'm sure they have."

Worthy immediately knew what Tag was referring to. "Oh, that little
thing! Pish, Tag. That only shows I had a good motive to off the old
bitch. It doesn't prove I killed her. It would be embarrassing, yes,
but without the gun, which I assure you is long gone, I can stand
having a red face." Worthy moved a few paces to his right and looked
down at the carpet. 

Then he said, as if sharing news with a confidante, "Haven't you
figured out by now what it is I'm looking for, Mr. Clever House Dick?"
It came to Tag.

"Well, the only thing I can see you sweating out this much is a shell
casing. You find out you forgot to take them all with you?" Tag
thought: How the fuck did the cops miss that? Worthy seemed to read
his mind.

"Oh, yes, Tag, I truly sweated it out, I'll say. But when I wasn't
arrested, I figured the cops had missed it somehow. I had to wait, of
course, which, let me tell you, took ten years off my hide, but here
we are."

Tag said, "Here were are, indeed." 

"Now, Tag, you know about these things. The gun was a right ejector. I
was standing approximately right there," he pointed to a spot on the
carpet, "so, where do you think the little devil has gotten itself
to?" Tag was all help.

"Well, if I were you, I'd try the top of that large, gold picture
frame way over there." He pointed at a framed picture, a good ten feet
from them. "Look along the top edge."

"My, my, you are a clever one, aren't you? Thanks." Without removing
his eyes from Tag, Worthy made his way to the frame and reached a hand
up and felt along the top. A second later he said, "Voila! Lookie
here!" He held up the lost casing. He had a truly gleeful look on his
face. It reminded Tag of the top hatted yellow gnome. Now he knew why
the gnome looked familiar.

Tag said, "Well, goody goody for you, Hammy, and now that you've found
your missing friend, can I go? I promised Lucy I'd read her a bedtime
story. And, while I'm gathering my fairy tale books, why don't you
just take that little trinket to Detective Hunger and tell him what a
naughty boy you've been. He's a very understanding cop. Cries at weepy
movies, from what I understand." Tag stood up and started moving
toward the bedroom door. He was a good six feet closer to it than
Worthy.

Worthy said, "Stop moving, Tag, or . . . " Tag ignore him and kept
moving, slowly, but surely.

"Ham, I'll just go and get my Glock so the cleaning woman doesn't
think it's an oddball's idea of a tip of some kind, OK?" He kept
going. At the doorway he heard what he expected to hear.

Click . . . click . . . click. Tag turned, smiled at Worthy, and
started back toward him. The poor man's mouth was agape. Tag reached
behind himself and brought forth a pair of regulation handcuffs. 

"I recognized your pearl handled gun, Ham, as Wilde's. I personally
emptied the clip, on the day I met you, in fact. Now, old chum, you
have two choices. One, you stick your arms out and let me slip these
on you," he jingled the cuffs, "or two, you decide it's better if I
beat the living shit out of you first. Choose a number, pal, from one
to two." 

Worthy's arms went out in front of him, one fist closed, the casing in
it. Tag cuffed him and gently pried the closed hand open. He slapped
the underside of the hand, forcing the casing into the air. They both
watched as it land quietly on the carpet.

Tag said, "I figure your prints must be on it, otherwise you wouldn't
have cared if they found it or not. Right?" Worthy nodded. "Careless
of you, Ham, real sloppy. You must be new to the game of murder." Then
Tag had another question.

"With all your millions, Ham, why didn't you just ignore Wilde? So she
called you a few bad names. In public yet. So fucking what? Without
real proof, and I'm sure she had no real proof, you might be
embarrassed, but shit, you could have moved anywhere you wanted to,
started a new life even. Why throw it all away? Why kill her?"

"You can't understand, Tag, I'm a man of high breeding and an
impeccable reputation. I just can't run off to an island and live
among the hairy natives. And, even if I were to simply retire, and
without any trouble at all from Wilde, I would still have had to
maintain my status and social standing in the publishing world.
Without them, I'm nobody, a nothing, I'm a . . . "

"Oh, I do get it, Ham, I may not understand it, but I do get it.
Wilde's assertions probably would have made all your froo-froo friends
abandon you. And, to you, that would have been a fate worse then
death. Am I right?" Worthy nodded.

"I would have had to kill myself, Tag." He had said this in a sober,
matter-of-fact tone. Tag had no reason whatsoever not to believe him.

Tag reached behind Worthy and got a strong hold on the man's suit,
right around the neck area. He marched him into the bedroom this way;
his pushed up grip forcing Worthy to walk on tippy-toes. Then, keeping
Worthy at a full arm's length from the bed, Tag reached out with his
free hand and retrieved the Glock. He holstered it, giving it a love
pat.

"Now, Ham, were off to see the Wizard." He released his hold on the
man, led him out of Suite 912, and then straight to the elevator. As
the elevator doors opened, Tag said to Worthy, "You believe in gnomes,
Ham, of the yellow kind with purple eyes?"

Worthy just stared at Tag . . .

* * * * * *

AT THE GROUND FLOOR, Worthy got off first, with Tag close behind him. 

Then, speak of the devil, there to greet them was none other than
Detective Jack Hunger. He eyed the cuffs on Worthy, and then he looked
at Tag.

Hunger pointed a thumb at Worthy. "I see Lucy finally managed to get a
hold of you, and you, Tag, as I can plainly see, got a hold of our
Wilde killer. Was he . . . ?"

"Lucy? What are you talking about? I haven't heard from her in hours
now."

"Ha ha, well I'll be! I thought she told you how she figured out who
the killer was. Old Mr. Worthy here. She called me all upset because
you weren't answering the phone in 912 and . . . " Worthy piped in, "I
had taken it off the hook." Hunger nodded and went on.

"She wanted to go up to 912, but I told her not to. Just in case. Told
her I would do it. She said she figured it out from Wilde's papers.
Well, I checked my copy and she was right. Only thing is, as I told
her, we had no proof whatsoever. Still don't, I guess. So, unless you
can pull a clue rabbit out of the hat, Tag, we'll have to let Mr.
Worthy here go free." Worthy perked up a bit by the word free, but
quickly perked back down.

Tag made a magician's flourish with his right hand. "Ta da! You'll
find the metal-jacketed rabbit, Jack, ha ha, lying on the carpet in
912. With the fingerprints of my Worthy assistant here all over it.
Seems the silly thing had been hiding on the top edge of a large
picture frame. How your eagle-eyed people missed it is a mystery, but
Mr. Worthy here was kind enough to find it for me. Thank Mr. Worthy,
Detective Hunger."

"Thank you, Mr. Worthy, that was most considerate of you. But tell me,
sir, how did you make the piece disappear?" The magic was still in
vogue.

Worthy looked dejected. He sighed and said, "It's in the river,
detective. I threw it off the ferry, somewhere in the middle of the
crossing." He sighed again.

"Well, no matter. Even if we don't find it, the casing's good evidence
enough . . .

* * * * * *

"LUCY, YOU'RE A PIP!" Tag said, smiling at her. "And a regular
Sherlock Holmes, Charlie Chan, and Miss Marple all rolled into one."
He had just finished telling her about Worthy's arrest, including the
shell-casing story.

"I are, ain't I?" She beamed at him. "Well, it was elementary, my dear
Mr. Boneher-in-the-ear. Once I read about Wilde's plans to change
publishers and put a mention about Worthy in her next book on
pedophiles, as a pedophile, I saw he had a strong motive to do her in.
I tried to get to you first, but you weren't answering the phone in
912. Then, when I spoke to Jack, he said there wasn't any proof. But I
guess you had it figured out way before me . . . "

"Actually, I didn't. You beat me to the punch, Luce. I was totally in
the dark until I met the gnome." He let that hang there, in the air.

"What gnome?"

"The yellow gnome."

"What yellow gnome?" Tag's fun hook was out, just looking for a fish.

"The yellow gnome with purple eyes, the one fooling around with the
kid."

"What kid?" He had her good now; she was an inch away from the fun
hook.

"The kid the yellow gnome made from a tree stump." Tag was enjoying
himself.

"Tree stump?" Lucy looked slightly perplexed, but Tag knew the hook
was set.

"Yeah, the tree stump. Then he made another tree stump and made the
kid bend over it. Then the yellow gnome did it."

"Did what? Tell you that Worthy was the killer?"

"Nah, the yellow gnome was too tricky and devious, not to mention way
too clever, to be that direct. He liked to play mind games with me. So
he first sploshed in the kid's Hershey shoot."

"He did what in what?"

"Pissed in his ass. Got it all over the grass, too, the slob. Then he
did his next nasty little trick, the rotten bastard pervert yellow
gnome."

"What he do next?" She was all ears now. Her eyes were agog.

"He corn-holed the poor kid."

"What does that mean?" She honestly didn't know.

"He fucked the kid in the ass!"

"Oh! He did?"

"Yeah, with his long, thin, yellow gnome penis." 

"Did the yellow gnome cum?" What a question. So Lucy like.

"I assume so. But I couldn't speak, so I couldn't ask him. Besides,
even if I could speak, I doubt it would have done any good."

"Why not?"

"The yellow gnome spoke only in rhyme. With a Willa Nilla this and a
Wiggy Woggy that and an Uggy Muggy thrown in for good measure." Again,
he let it just hang.

"Huh? That kind of rhyme? That makes no sense at all, Tag."

"I know, that's why it was so hard to understand him. Of course, when
he said, 'Willa Nilla, here's your killer,' or something like that, I
woke right up.

"You woke up?" Dear, sweet Lucy. But it looked as if the fish was
getting loose.

"Yeah, I do that every time I go to sleep. So far at least."

"And where did the yellow gnome go after you woke up? And what
happened to the poor kid?" Sweet Lucy, still on the line.

"I don't know. They might have gotten married. The yellow gnome did
look like one of those let's-settle-down-and-raise-babies type of
gnomes." It was too much.

"Sounds like Jack!"

"Could be. Does he have a long, thin, yellow penis?" Tag laughed.

"Well, it's long, but it ain't thin, and about the color, I don't
really know. The lights were out when we did it!" She giggled. "Next
time, I'll surprise him with a flashlight! OK?"

"Ha ha ha! Oh, shit, Luce, I've got tears in my eyes! Flashlight! Ha
ha ha!" He knew the fish had gotten free, but it didn't matter any
more.

After Tag settled down a bit, Lucy said, "Tag, I know Wendy Wilde had
it in real bad for Mr. Worthy, but why? You think they were lovers and
he hurt her somehow?"

"Could be, but I don't see that. Worthy tolerated her because she was
his cash cow, but his obsession with class and status wouldn't have
allowed him to be linked to her romantically. Not with her sexual
background. More likely, she either caught him cheating her on
royalties or she just plain hated pedophiles. Maybe both. We'll never
really know now, will we?" Lucy shook her head, agreeing with him.

"Taggie," Lucy said, sounding very I-want-something-from-you. "You
wanna help a poor girl out?" She batted those eyes of hers again.

"Whatcha need, kiddo?"

"Well, right after you left for your beauty rest with your yellow
gnome friend, Jack popped in and we had a quickie. Hush! And, since I
have a late date with my Viking guy, and you just know I'm gonna fuck
him, too, how would you like to be my middle man?" She smiled at him,
looking very much the flirty coquette.

"You saying you wanna hit your first trifecta today?"

"Exactly! Shit, Tag, just thinking about it now is turning my pussy
into boiling water. I even left Jack's cum in me, just for the extra
excitement of knowing it's there. Wanna add yours to my . . . uh . . .
Soufflé à la Fern?" She batted her eyes at him once more.

"Sure, Chef Lucy, and my famous pungency should add a zest to your
recipe."

"Well, if you're good, Taggy Waggy, I'll let you taste some right from
the oven . . . "

* * * * * *

The End.