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: House Dick!

by Arthur Kay


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 kid, 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. 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 statistic.

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 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. 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 a playful mood. 

"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, lady, 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 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. 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.

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, as if speaking into a microphone, said, "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 till 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.

His hands were back behind her neck and he was pushing his ass off the
chair slightly, gently mouth-fucking her. They had an excellent
rhythym going. He knew he was close to shooting off, but he didn't
want it to end. It felt too good. Hold out, he thought to himself,
make it last, baby. 

He did his best to hold out, and he did for a while, but it was
finally way to much for him to control. He felt his balls rise and
pucker up in a prelude to his cumming. He gave Luce the taste-my-cum
words, "Just the head, baby, just the head!" She scooted up from the
deep-throat spot to a point where her lips were just equal to the
cockhead's ridge. Tag knew, and she knew he knew, that she wanted to
feel it cum, taste the cum, not have it go directly into her stomach.
What fun was there in that?

She was still massaging his rising balls when she felt the first of
the cum start to travel under her thumb at the base. It rippled
beneath her thumb as it made its short trip to her mouth. However,
even before it reached its destination, she felt another distinct
ripple. She knew she was about to get a mouthful. And she loved the
thought. She wiggled her tongue across the underside, tickling the
glan penis, urging the cum on. As if it needed urging!

Most men, so it's said, cum a full teaspoon, but Tag wasn't like most
men. His usual, run-of-the-mill cum load was around three tablespoons.
Which means, if you're up on your cooking equivalency measurements,
nine of those teaspoons. He was one heavy cummer, old Taggart was. Two
times in his life, to two women's chagrin, his load was so big it was
choked on and it actually came out their nostrils. He avoided this
from happening again by educating any woman who wanted to taste him,
to swallow, swallow, swallow. One of the hapless women just happened
to be Lucy.

Lucy was now ready to swallow. His first spurt was so forceful it not
only hit the back of her throat, it slid down somewhat. Swallow. This
was followed by four more throat-hitting spurts with a well-timed
swallow here and a swallow there by Lucy. Her mouth had filled fully
twice so far, and she could even smell the muskiness of his cum.

Then came his usual puddling effect. Cum just poured out of his
cockhead, bubbling out, finding her tongue, and flooding her mouth a
third time.

This time, Lucy did what she loved to do. She swished the large amount
of cum around in her mouth before swallowing it all. She loved to feel
it coating the entire interior of her mouth, even her teeth. To her,
it tasted like heaven would taste if heaven was a flavor. A cum
flavor. 

She moaned as she swallowed it all. And fingered herself very quickly.
His cockhead was still in her mouth, she opened it wide and said, "Oh,
Dod, I'm cubbing abain!" Tag understood every mumbled word. 

She then vacuum sucked his cock clean for a few minutes. Finally,
removing her mouth, she looked up at him, a glazed, sleepy look in her
eyes. 

"Oh, Tag, that was so fucking good!" He just nodded as he tweaked a
nipple. She shuddered and pulled away. "Oooh!" She shuddered again,
her legs trembling. "Oh, Taggy, I'm gonna be tasting you all day!" She
now felt playful.

Lucy reached out and grabbed her cockophone again. It was now limp in
her hand. "To anyone who can hear me, the big, one-eyed beast is dead
. . . Oh, No! Wait!" Using her thumb and forefinger, she squeezed
Tag's cockhead, opening and closing the pee hole. 

"It's still alive! It's winking at me, the cocky fucker. Hold on!" She
reached out and pushed her tongue into the pee hole and wiggled it
around. "I've just stuck my tongue into its eye and I think that did
it." She squeezed the cockhead and wiggled it back and forth. 

"Yep, he's down for the count. No signs of life. Now, if his two pals,
Ike and Mike, don't get him outta here, I'm gonna bite his big,
fucking head off! Over and out!" She leaned forward as if to do just
that.

Tag, shamming great fear and cupping both hands over his genitals,
jumped back a foot. He laughed as she stood up.

:Luce, I swear, you should do a one-woman show on, or off Broadway. I
know I'd pay a ton to see it!"

"See it? Shit, Taggy, I ain't doing it unless your big, one-eyed
monster co-stars!"

"Does it get top billing?"

"No, Taggy Waggy, I'm the star, so I get to be on top." She giggled.
"Besides, it doesn't have any lines to learn!" She giggled again.

"Yeah, you say that now, but knowing you, you'll expect it to growl on
cue." Now he giggled.

"So?" she said. "Is that asking too much from a co-star?"  

Then, knowing what he just loved to do afterward, she sat on the edge
of his desk and spread her legs, her pussy in clear sight. He leaned
forward in his chair and, without saying a word, buried his head into
her crotch area. Early in their game, and out of curiosity, she had
asked him why he liked doing this, eating her out after any form of
sex.

"Shit, woman," he had said. "there are two reasons. One, I want you
truly satisfied. Way satisfied. And two, I love eating a pussy when
it's hot and steamy after cumming. It feels fantastic to me. Any
objections, Ma'am?"

"Objections?" she had said. "Fuck, if my wimp of a husband had your
philosophy, I'd still be married to the frigging twerp!" 

But that was then and this is now. Tag not only ate her pussy, he
devoured it. Shit, he even nose-fucked her! His lower face was soon
covered with her feminine juices. He tongued her gently and roughly
and alternated between the two. He became a frenzied pussy eating
maniac! 

He would lick her clit and then suck on it. Perhaps bite it gently. He
would swirl his tongue all over the place, making her squeal with
pleasure. Driving her from one orgasm to another. He was fucking
relentless in his desire to pleasure her. And she loved him for it.
Her moans, groans, and yells told him that much. 

As he chewed and licked her to a state of madness, he played with her
breasts, her nipples. His hands stroked her back and the top of her
ass. He licked her inner thighs. In a word, he drove her nuts and made
her involuntarily wiggle her ass on the desk and grab his head with
her hands and moan, and groan, and yell. 

Finally, she pushed him away and jumped to her feet, wobbling a bit.
"Christ, Tag, I can't take any more! Even though I want more!" She
laughed. He laughed, his face covered in shiny juices. He licked his
lips. She bent over and kissed him, a long kiss, with tongues
flashing. He could taste his own cum. It now mixed with the taste of
her pussy juices. They finally broke from the kiss.

"Yummy cummy, my dear Luce. Yummy cummy for sure!" He licked his lips
again and said, "Did you enjoy that, love? The way I eat you? Or do I
need to work on my overall technique?" He shammed a quizzical look.
"Eh?"

She pulled down her mini skirt and crossed the room to get her blouse.
Over her shoulder, she said, "Listen, Mr. Boneher-and-suck-her-cunt-
dry, if your technique gets any better, I'll need the paramedics!"

He laughed and proceeded to get dressed. Their wonderful session was
over. He filled Lucy in on the new job. The free suite and all the
other included amenities. She had a question.

"What about me, Mr. Boneher-nice-and-hard-and-tell-her-zip?"

"Oh, that's right. I didn't tell you. You, my hot tamale puss, are
part of my contract, so you go where I go. Capish?" He smiled. "If you
want to, that is, at almost double the salary I don't pay you now."

"Capish. And I want to, at almost twice the salary I'm not getting
anyway. And It'll be nice fucking you in a real bed for a change. I
assume you'll have a real bed, won't you?" He nodded.

"Good. And maybe you'll let me watch you fuck all those rich and
married hotel broads. Huh? Can I? Can I?"

He laughed. "Well, Luce, you know the old saying, 'Don't shit where
you eat!' So I might not be doing too much rich, married lady
canoodling. Don't wanna fuck up a good gig up, now do I?" He paused.
"Fuck! Who am I kidding?" He laughed. Lucy giggled.

"Yeah, Tag," she said. "We both know you. Real well. But can I watch?"

"You'd like that?"

"Yeah, I'd like to watch a rich bitch put it to you. It would turn me
on a lot. And, who knows? I just might let my bi-curious side show."

"Shit, Lu, you and your roommate, Brenda, have been eating each
other's pussies for years now! Bi-curious side! My ass side!"

"Who told you that adulterated shit?" Her eyes had widened.

"You did, dummy, when you got drunk at the last New Year's Eve party.
Remember? That was the one, and so far, only time I did you and Brenda
at the same time. I saw you, girl, eat her out like a champ! And Vice
versa."

"I plead the fifth, Mr. Boneher-and-fuck-her-roomie!" She giggled.

"Well, I rest my case, old gal. Anyway, why don't you get this place
all prepped up for my big time move. You know, our so-called files and
such. I start the new job in two weeks, so we have plenty of time, but
you know me, I don't like leaving it all until the last minute." Lucy
nodded. He went on.

"Now, I've gotta go and sell my car so I can pay you your back slave
wages. Might as well start with a clean slate, eh?" She nodded again.

Tag knew she didn't need the money. Her daddy gave her a living
allowance of $35,000 a year, just for being his adorable daughter, and
gave her free rent in one of the many apartment building he owned. She
also had a battery of charge cards without a limit restricting any of
them. Name a store, she had a card, or two.

No, Lucy Fern didn't need the money. What she needed was now nestling
restfully in between his legs. Along with its two best pals, Ike and
Mike. And he, in a most gentlemanly manner, would never, ever dream of
making her pay for it. Unless, of course, she insisted. Nah, he
thought, not even then. Then again! Nah. Then again . . .

He went to her and put his arms around her. He gave her a juicy,
sloppy French kiss, his tongue tasting his own cum again. He knew that
if he came back in a few hours, that cum taste would still be there.
Lucy had told him she wouldn't drink anything, even water, as she
liked to hold onto the cum taste for as long as humanly possible. 

She loved feeling the salty tickle in her throat every time she
swallowed saliva. She also told him that there were many times when
she would get so turned on by that unbelievable effect, she just had
to wank off right there at her little desk. While picturing his big,
hairy, large-headed cock. Now and then, Tag had tried to catch her at
it, but she was always a step ( a finger?) ahead of him.

Tag broke the kiss, gave her ass cheeks a squeeze with both hands, and
said, "See ya later, kid." He winked at her and headed for the locked
front door.

At the door, he turned to her and said, "Lock it behind, Sweetie.
Loonies abound in these times, you know." She nodded and mumbled a
quiet 'Sure' as she went toward her desk. She opened the desk's center
drawer and took something out.

Just before he closed the door behind him, he took one last look at
the beautiful redhead who had just given him one great sucking. She
was coming over to lock up, a white 12" vibrator in her hand and a
smile on her face.

He whispered, "Fuck, woman, you're insatiable!" The door closed and he
heard it lock. Through the door, he said loudly, "Watch out for that
high-speed setting, lady, it could ruin your child bearing years!" He
heard her giggle as he headed for the elevator. 

As he waited for the elevator, he thought, That Lucy! Thank you God
for putting her into my life. I owe you big time, fella!" Tag felt a
stirring in his groin just thinking about her and decided if he was
going to get on a public elevator, it was time to think about
something else, like baseball. That always worked. Just as well as
thinking about Abe Vigoda or Phyllis Diller. Or all three.

* * * * * *

TAG sold his car, getting less than he wanted, and sold all his
furniture to some fat, old fart in an ill-fitting suit, getting way
less than he wanted. But Tag wasn't in the mood for haggling price. He
was never in the mood to haggle price. It wasn't in his makeup. To
him, life was just too short for haggling, in spite of the fun some
people said they got out of it.

After depositing the money, he paid up his rent to the end of the
month, which was two weeks away, gave the landlady notice of moving
out and, feeling the joy of getting squared up with the world, happily
wrote out a check to Lucy Fern for three months salary plus a little
bonus of a hundred. 

Yeah, old Tag felt square with the world all right, but for two weeks
he'd have no wheels and an apartment without any furniture to enjoy.
And that lack of enjoyment included no bed in which to sleep. However,
he felt sure that little detail would be taken care of by witchcraft.
Or, to put it more correctly, by his next door neighbor, Wanda Blake,
a practicing witch, who had one witchy body on her. That old black
magic, as practiced by a white woman. 

Of course, he thought, I'd better cast a spell on her first. Ha ha.
That's a laugh! Wanda thinks swallowing male sperm gives her male
power! And male magic. Christ, with the amount of my sperm she's
gulped down over time, she should be Charles Atlas by now in the power
and magic departments! 

He figured Wanda was deluding herself, rationalizing a reason for
sucking him off, but his attitude was: Whatever floats your boat is
fine by me. And, if she was telling a witchy truth, four other men as
well. All, she told him, contributed to her power and magic
attainment.

The spell did its work! Wanda was more than thrilled to have Tag crash
at her place for a few weeks. As long as his big cock crashed with
him, that is. Any person watching how quickly she had agreed to the
arrangement would have also been the first to see a witch salivate.
And, if he or she had the eyes of God, they would have seen her pussy
twitching, too.

"Oh, Taggy, it'll be such fun the two of us living in sin. Of the
carnal kind, I assume?" She looked him directly in the eyes. He nodded
meekly. His nod saying: You want carnal, I give carnal. I'm easy that
way.

"Oh, goody, we have a deal then. You use my bed and I use you. All of
you. For two whole weeks! Goody, goody. How married like and normal it
will all seem!" She laughed, one of those throaty, hoarse laughs heavy
smokers are famous for. He laughed, too, but not as vibrantly. More
like the laugh a sheep gives when heading to the slaughter. A gallows
laugh. But, in this case, he didn't mind being sacrificed.

Oh, well, he thought, how bad can it be? Wanda's got a great bod for a
gal in her late fifties. Or was she now in her early sixties? Fuck if
I know! Now, if I can only stand being in that all black bedroom of
hers! Brr! Witchcraft!

He spent the afternoon packing up his personal belongings, which
didn't amount to much as he lived life on the light side when it came
to that kind of stuff. He would have to live out of a suitcase, so to
speak, for two weeks, but if he cared he didn't show it. Hey, he told
himself, lighten up, pal. I'm sounding as if I've been given a one way
ticket to a Siberian gulag. There are worse things than bivouacking
with Wanda for a few weeks. True, she'll want to devour my sillly ass
every chance she gets until my balls are the size of raisins, but I
like raisins.

He had to be at Wanda's place at 7 p.m. for what she laughingly
referred to as their first honeymoon night and celebratory salad
supper. Brr! But, in the spirit of things, he had gone out and bought
a pot of black pansies as a token of appreciation to his new roomie. 

At the florists, he had felt like a total Satan worshipping freak when
he had stupidly asked the woman waiting on him if she had flowers a
practicing witch would enjoy. 

"You mean witch as in coven?" She had asked, a tad of fear showing in
her eyes. He said yes and she threw him a look that said should I call
a cop or what? He told her it was just a little joke and this calmed
her enough to suggest black pansies. It was the only thing she could
think of that your run-of-the-mill witch might like. He took out his
credit card and his deal with the dark forces was duly made and
sealed. 

As he left the little shop, he looked down at the pansies. Oh, well,
he thought, you guys have nice little yellow eyes. Just like Satan's,
I imagine!

As he rang Wanda's bell, the pansies cleverly hidden behind him, he
said hello to her neighbor, a Mr. Crane or was it Thane. Maybe Wayne.
Whoever. It ended in an "ane" sound. Maybe. He tapped the bell again
just as her heard behind the door opening up the first of four locks.
She may have spells to ward off evil at her command, he thought, but
she's a cautious spellbinder.

Mr. Whoever was still standing there when Wanda threw her door open
and said to Tag, in her deepest, sexiest voice, "Hi, hubby of mine,
had a rough day? I'll soon make you forget all about it, Baby."

Tag watched Mr. Whoever's eyes pop out. The guy just stood there, his
key half in the doorlock, a shocked looked on his puss. He appeared to
be drooling from his gaping mouth.

Wanda was standing in her doorway dressed in only a flimsy white see-
thru nightie and, with the ceiling light shining behind her and
through the material, she looked absolutely naked. Her titties and
pussy were just hanging out as if on the prowl. Mr. Crane, Thane,
Wayne looked delirious. His tongue was now hanging out to one side.
And his key hadn't moved a whit.

Tag played along. "Hi, wife. You ready for some good fucking and
sucking?" He had said the words as he entered her place so he couldn't
see the guy's face, but he had fun picturing it. As he turned to close
the door behind him, he saw that Mr. Manynames had added a frozen
stare and a sweat-covered forehead to his job as hallway statue
holding a key. Poor man, thought Tag, I'll bet he dreams wet tonight!
In living color, no doubt.

He handed Wanda the pansies. "Ohh, Tag, my favorite color! How did you
ever know?" She laughed and told him supper was almost ready, and
would he mind pouring the wine? As he nodded compliance, she said,
"It's the red wine, darling, you'll find it already decanted and
breathing on the prep board. I'll undress the pansies and we'll use
them as a gay centerpiece." Gay? He thought, to who? A fucking
mortician? Uncle Fester?

He got the bottle of wine and brought it to the dining table. Wanda
had made a nice setting for them. It looked as if she had broken out
her best china and silverware. Black china and black handles on the
utensils. 

Of course, it was no surprise to see the all black table cloth. But it
did surprise him seeing this domestic, Martha Stewart side of Wanda.
He heard her call out from the kitchen, "Din-din in a min, my love,
would you kill the overhead lights, and put a match to the two
candles?" Black! Of course. He noticed them now, two black tapers as
sleek as India ink.

He did his chores in what he considered a logical order. He poured the
wine. Lit the candles. Killed the ceiling lights. Sat down and tried
to guess if he would be able to see what he'd be eating. Sure, as long
as the light coming from the kitchen stayed around. It didn't. She had
murdered the light on her way out..

"Shit, Wanda, with everything black on this table, I can't see my
plate. I'm not used to eating in Braille! Fucking yes, but not
eating." She solved that problem by magically bringing the room lights
up a notch. "I can see!" he quipped. "I'm cured, Ms. Witchdoctor!"

"Dumbkopf!" she said. "Can't you recognize a dimmer switch when you
touch one? Or does it need to have a nipple dead center?" She giggled
and sat down. He laughed and they dug in.

Tag enjoyed Wanda's cooking, if a salad comes under that general
heading, and, after four glasses of a hearty burgundy wine, old Wanda
was starting to look pretty damn good to him. Damned good. Despite
some minor chin wrinkles and a few around each eye. And her body was
pretty firm for her stage in life. 

True, her titties sagged a notch, but not enough to make a federal
case out of it. And, whatever the minor titty drawbacks, her still
shapely legs and young-looking tight ass more than compensated. Dinner
over, she now sat across the dining table from him, smoking a
cigarette in a foot-long gold and black holder. She took a puff, blew
it up toward the ceiling, and broke the silence.

"Taggy, dear, I hope you enjoyed the meal." He smiled and nodded. "I
know this all seems rush rush, but at my age, Darling . . . well, fuck
the niceties! I've wined and dined you, Taggy, my pet, and now I hope
you'll give me my pound of flesh!" She laughed, throaty-like. It was
pay up time.

"How'd you know my dick weighs a pound?" he quipped.

"Honey," she said. "We witches know how to use our mouths as a scale."
She giggled again. "And, if it's called for, as a ruler, too!" Tag
laughed. The talk was making his crotch come to life. He sipped more
wine.

"Really?" he said. "Well, why don't you show me how you do those
little tricks? I haven't been weighed and measured in a while now. Who
knows? I might have put on a pound or two. But shouldn't we wait an
hour after eating or something?"

"On salad and wine? Don't be silly, dear boy! Pasta and beer, yes, but
only if we're going swimming. That old wives tale doesn't apply to
what we have in mind. So, get naked, sonny, if you know what's good
for you." She stood up, crossed her arms, tapped one foot and said,
"Momma's waiting, baby." Even in the dim light, she looked near naked.
He could see her eyes sparkling as she watched him. They reminded him
of a cat's eyes. Which reminded him of her cat, her familiar, an all
black cat named Wizard.

"Wanda, where's Wiz?" He hadn't seen the little black devil all
evening.

"He's at a friend's place for the next few weeks. I know you feel
about having him around you." She'd said it matter-of-factly, but he
could hear a small hurt in her voice. Or was it a disappointment?

"I like the little guy, Wand, it's just that he rubs me the wrong way.
Every time I try to pet him, he hisses at me as if he's gonna chomp
off one of my fingers if I come any nearer. It's his problem. You
should talk to him about it." Tag felt he had handled that adroitly.
She had other ideas.

"Wizard, Tag, is very in tune with everything. He psychic, in fact. If
you want him to cozy up to you, you have to change your personna, Tag,
and your way of doing things. Growling at him with, 'C'mere you black
bastard!' won't win Wizard over. But now's not the time for that. Get
the fuck out of those duds, cat hater." Tag decided not to pursue this
line any farther.

He stood up, slowly undid his trousers, lowered them along with his
boxers, and stepped out of the puddle of clothes. His cock, somewhat
flaccid, hung down a good seven inches. Wanda came over to him and
helped him out of his tie and shirt. She then cupped his balls in her
right hand and the electricity of her gentle caress ran through him on
high voltage. His legs trembled. And an involuntary shudder ran over
his entire body.

"Ooh, look what I found!" she cooed as she squeezed and then hefted
his nut sack up and down. "My, my, two pounds, three ounces!" She
laughed. He followed suit. They were having fun with the guess-the-
weight portion of the game. And any negative thoughts remaining in
Tag's mind about Wizard were gone. They were mentally connected again,
he and Wanda.

Tag reached out and grabbed her nightie with both hands. He whisked it
over her head in one motion and she stood there, naked, exposed. And
all his. There was no need to rush. They had all night. Two weeks of
nights.

He took her into his arms and kissed her. His tongue found the now
familiar plastic of her upper denture plate as she moaned in his arms.
Now, some guys might be turned off by a woman's dentures, but not Tag.
To him, it was just another reality of life.

Her mouth was hot and wet and she was one helluva kisser. Soft, thick
luscious lips added to his overall pleasure and he knew that those
lips, when the dentures were removed, could drive his cock crazy. To
him, there was nothing as wonderful as mouth-fucking a toothless
woman. She called it the only true gum job in the world. Just thinking
about it now, his cock was as hard as hard can get.

He broke the kiss and whispered hotly in her ear. "Take them out,
Love, both of them." She reached down and stroked his hard cock a few
times and said, "Back in a mo, Sweetie, don't you start without
Momma." She headed for the bathroom. As she walked away, he eyed her
ass and stroked away on his prick, pulling on his balls for fun and
excitement. She was back in less than a minute. Smiling at him.

He took her in his arms and resumed kissing her, this time finding
only soft gums to greet his probing tongue. He tongue- kissed her for
a long time, feeling saliva sputtering out and onto their chins. As he
kissed her, his hands roamed all over. He squeezed her rounded ass
cheeks, pressed a finger into her anus, and kneaded and tweaked both
breasts. When he put a finger, then two, into her dripping womanhood,
her whole body jumped as if he had used a cattle prod on her. "Ooooh!"
she moaned. Then she cooed, actually cooed. "Coo . . . coo." Over and
over as he plunged his fingers in and out of her.

Her hands were busy, too. She ran them over his entire frame, as much
as she could reach. His muscular back and ass cheeks. His neck. His
outer thighs. When she reached down and firmly took his cock shaft in
hand, it was his turn to jump. Her touch was magical, as if
electricity had found a way to mix with friction. As if she really did
possess real magic.

They kissed and felt each other for quite some time. Tag knew Wanda
loved a lot of lip action prior to the main event and he was only too
happy to oblige. He like kissing her. He also liked the way she
squirmed as he manipulated her vagina, her body wiggling around. And,
without looking, he knew the carpet would be covered with little drops
of her bodily fluids. His soaked fingers told him that much. Wanda,
like Tag, was a heavy cummer.

Foreplay was finally over. Wanda dropped to her knees and, without a
word, took one of his balls into her toothless mouth. She sucked and
slurped, going from one to the other, and soon they were both wetter
than water. Tag was moaning throughout the pleasurable ordeal. And
then he moaned a louder moan as she slipped a fingertip into his anus
and wiggled it around.

"Wand," he said. "You suck my balls so well. Suck them, Baby, get them
good and wet. Oh, yes, that's it. Suck them." He had both hands
entwined in her hair and was moving her head around, watching her suck
on his hairy balls. His hard cock was resting on top of her head,
wobbling from side to side, as if having trouble deciding which
direction to settle on.

"Now, suck on my cock, Wand, and get it nice and hard so it'll drive
your pussy crazy when I finally fuck you." The spoken word had its
usual lurid effect on both of them.

Her toothless mouth engulfed his swolen cockhead and the heat of it
hit him hard. "Ooooh, shit, Wand! What a mouth!"

She gave his cock head a good sucking for a few minutes before
plunging all the way down to his pubic hairs. All 8 plus inches were
now in her mouth and down her throat. Without teeth to occupy any
space, Wanda kept her lips at the base and put out her tongue, laving
his balls with it. Her saliva poured out of her mouth further soaking
his cock shaft and balls. "Oh, God,  Wanda Baby, you're something
else!"

And then, she was even more than something else. She stuffed his
balls, both of them, into her mouth at the same time. With her teeth
removed, there was just enough room for his testicles.

Wanda worked him a bit more, knowing when to stop here and there
before he might go off, and finally stood up. He was primed. She was
primed. 

"Taggy, I want you to fuck me doggy style, but I want to add something
new." That said, she opened one of the sideboard's drawers and took
out an object. She handed it to him. "I want you to put this in my
rectum. OK? I'm already lubed up for it."

He looked at the item and saw a 4" long replica of a cock. It was less
than an inch in diameter. An ass dildo. He grinned at her.

"Wand, I thought you didn't like anything up your ass?"

"I don't, normally, but something I read on the Internet got me
interested in giving it a try. They recommended this thing here for
us, uh, anal beginners. If it hurts too much, however, I expect you to
stop. OK?"

"Sure, Hon, just leave it to me. I'll try my best to get you to like
it, but if you don't, no problem, just say stop and stop it is." He
led her over to the sofa and asked her to bend over one of the soft,
plush arms. She complied, her wide backside at the perfect height.
"Wanda, sweetie, I just love your ass." He moved closer to her.

"Now, Wand," he said. "Reach back and spread your ass cheeks for me.
OK?" She said OK, then added, "Tag, you sound like a fucking
proctologist!" She giggled, making her whole body shake, her ass
cheeks wobbling. He laughed and bent over.

"What are you doing?" she asked, feeling a strangeness taking place at
her anus. "I'm licking your asshole, Wand, in preparation. We
proctologists must keep our high standards now, mustn't we?" She
laughed and said, "Well, Doc, it  feels strange, for sure. But nice,
too. So, Doc, go on with your probing!" He laughed as his mouth headed
back to her brown puckering hole. 

He tongued her asshole, licked it, rimmed it, forcing little squeals
of delight out of her. "Oooh," she said. "Something this nasty
shouldn't feel so fucking good, Doctor! Ooooooh!"

"You like it?"

"Fucking A!"

"Good. Remember that when it's your turn to reciprocate!" He punched
his tongue into her. She was silent. Not even a little moan. 

He stopped and said soothingly, "Cat got your tongue, you old witch?"
She finally spoke.

"I was thinking about your use of the word reciprocate, Taggy. I've
never done that to a man before, or a woman for that matter, but I
guess I could if push came to shove." She quickly jumped off the arm
and sat down on the sofa. "It's so . . . so nasty, Tag. But it sure
feels great. And, as you know, I once hated the idea of sucking a
man's dirty old cock so . . . " He interrupted her.

"Yeah, I remember that story you once told me about that uncle of
yours, who forced you, at age ten, to suck him off." He sat down
beside her on the sofa. "Tell me that one again, Wand, I'd love to
hear it once more. It turns me on." He wanted to side track her. She
left her arm position and sat next to him, absent mindedly stroking
his cock and balls.

"If you insist, Taggy. Let's see now. I had this uncle of mine,
Harold, a big bruiser of a man. You know, the outdoorsy lumberjack
type. Well, he used to babysit me so my parents could get a night out
at the movies. Anyway, he had, for years, been giving me a bath before
my beddie-bye time. Well, anyhooha, I was sort of used to him touching
me all over in the tub. And drying me off afterwards. It didn't seem
the least big odd.

"Well, one night as he was bathing me and was a little tipsy, he
stripped off his pants and underwear and said we were going to bathe
together. What did I know? He soaped me up real well, rinsed me off,
and then handed me the soap and said to wash him up. But he said all
he wanted washed was his cock and balls. He used those exact words,
cock and balls. I didn't know what they meant at the time, but it
didn't matter.

"I remember his cock hung down fat and heavy like. His balls were huge
and very hairy. I guess it all fascinated me. As I soaped up his big
balls I got a real surprise. His cock sprang up as if it had a mind of
its own. It seemed like magic. The head was big and purple, like a
plum. I was both scared and fascinated at the same time.

"He then told me to rinse him off and when I had done so he told me to
take the head of his cock into my mouth and suck on it. Right there in
the bathtub with both of us up to our ankles in tepid water. I
remember the exact words he used. "C'mon, Wanny, put your mouth on it!
You'll like it, I swear." I, for some unknown reason, balked at doing
it. This made him more than pissed.

"He grabbed my head and pushed it toward his dick. "Now listen, you
little cunt, you're going to suck me off or I swear I'll drown you
right here and now. What's it gonna be, girl?" What choice did I have?


"Older boys, in their teens, had tried to get me to suck them off, but
I wouldn't do it. To me, it was just too dirty and nasty. But with
uncle Harold, I hadn't the luxury of saying fuck off, buddy. So,
without further ado, I took my first prick into my young mouth. And
almost threw up right then and there. I gagged and sputtered up a
storm, but old Harold wasn't having any sympathy for me. He made me
suck on it until he came in my mouth. As I followed his threatening
order to swallow it all, I did throw up. All over his dick, crotch,
and belly. He didn't seem to care, however.

"He grabbed me by the neck and squeezed real hard. I had tears in my
eyes. He didn't care a fig. He told me that if I breathed a word of
this to anybody, he'd drown me for sure. I promised not to tell a
soul. Then he made me kiss the tip of his cock five times. Exactly
five. Then he told me to take it in my mouth again, just for practice,
and he assured me it wouldn't spit again. I complied and sucked him
for another fifteen minutes before he finally told me to stop. The
bastard was getting me used to the idea of having his cock in my
mouth.

"He told me I was going to do this to him every day from here on out.
I was to come over to his house right after school and he warned me
that he'd better not have to come looking for me. Although he scared
the shit ouf of me, I was also intrigued by it all. The secrecy of it
all seemed to add something strange and magical to the whole thing.
And, if I had to admit it, his cock, on the second time around, had
felt good in my mouth.

"Well, to make a long story short, I sucked him off just about every
day for five years. And in that time, he taught me how to take it all
the way down my throat. Shit, I must have swallowed gallons of his cum
over time. And, as I entered my teens, I found myself masturbating
with the picture of his fat, hairy cock in my mind. I even pictured it
as it spurted into my mouth. Harold had created one new cocksucker in
the world. And, I loved it, if truth be told.

"I even started sucking off some of the boys at school. All they had
to do to get me to blow them was to get me alone and say, "On your
knees, Wanda!" I did dozens of boys and was quite the popular girl."
She grinned at Tag. Her story was finished. Tag broke the short
silence.

"And he never tried to fuck you?"

"No, never did. I don't know why as I was his sex slave, so to say,
but he never tried to. Not even with a finger. Strange, that."

"Well," Tag said. " Uncle Harold was a bastard, for sure, but I'm glad
he taught you so well!" She got up and resumed her over-the-arm
position.

"Now, Doc," she said. "Where were we?"

Tag tongued her anus for a few minutes and then inserted the dildo
into her. The first inch caused her to yelp, but she didn't say stop.
He worked more of it in and heard her moan. He then pushed the entire
four inches in. "Oooh, that does feel good, Taggy!" Inspired, he
proceeded to saw it back and forth in her, fucking her asshole with
the tiny plastic cock.

After a while, he position his cockhead at the entrance of her pussy.
He wiggled it around her lips a bit and then slowly introduced it. She
moaned again. "Feel good, Wand?"

"Oh, yeah, Taggy, it's lovely. Put more of your cock in. And move the
dildo in and out at the same time. OK?" He said it was. He was
enjoying this. He started fucking her and reaming her asshole
simultaneously. Pretty soon, he had a good rhythym going. As he
plunged his cock the full length, he pulled the dildo in the opposite
direction. Wanda went wild, her ass thrashing about.

"Oh, God. Oh, God, Oh, fucking shit. Ooooooh! Oh, Mother. Oh, Taggy,
I'm coming one after another. Oh, God. Fuck me, baby, fuck me like
crazy. Oh, God. It's too much. Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, shit, oh,
fuck." She was delirious.

"You like, lady?" he said, picking up the pace. He was now pistoning
in and out of her pussy while yanking on the dildo to beat the band.
She was sceaming and yelling incoherently. Sweat poured off both of
them. Her ass wiggled as if trying to swallow his cock and the dildo
and never give them back. Finally, he yelled, too.

"I'm cumming, Wand. Hold tight, Baby, and take me. Here I go!
Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrgh!" She felt the heat of his cum flood her
insides.And each twitch his cock was making in her. She was cumming,
too. And yelling. They were both now yelling. Like crazy people. Sex
mad crazy people. 

Finally, he collapsed onto her back, his cock slowly shrinking inside
her, the dildo still in her ass. His sweat poured onto her back and
neck. She shuddered beneath him as a last surprise orgasm snuck up on
her.

Tag removed himself from her and stood up. Wanda just laid there, too
weak to move. He slowly and gently removed the dildo from her anus,
hearing her moan as he did. Implulsively, he bent over and placed his
mouth on the little puckered anus and tongued it a bit. She moaned
again. He did this for a few minutes and then she shifted, signalling
she wanted to join the world of the erect standing people once more.

"Oh, Taggy, that was beyond delicious!" She put both hands on his arms
and turned him around so his back faced her. "Before I lose my nerve,
Taggy, I want to, ahem, reciprocate." Then, without a further word,
she spread his ass cheeks and took the plunge. His anus surprised her.
It didn't smell stinky or even close to it. It had a musky, manly
odor. Hell, she thought, this ain't so bad. 

She worked him for a few minutes, and then he spun around. 

"That's enough, Wand, we'll save some for later. OK?" Then, feeling
she might think he was rebuffing her, he kissed her. A long kiss. One
that said all that was needed to be said.

"You know, Tag, I wonder what's next for me? Threesomes? Groups?
Gangbangs? Dogs? Christ, Taggy, you've turned me into a wanton cum
slut!" She grinned at him. "What time's the next orgy?"

"You left out horses, Wand! They have really big peckers! Fat around
as Coke bottles, too!"

"Really? Wanna go riding sometime soon?" He laughed.

"Shit, woman, you get fucked by one of those horse cocks, I'd never
see you again!" Now she laughed.

"Well, Taggy, what if I just do some big, black guy with a mere twelve
inches and no bigger around than my wrist?" 

"I'd still never see you again!" They both laughed. 

"Now, Tag, Darling, shall we hit the hay?" She took his hand and led
him into her bedroom. The bedroom all in black. Black walls, ceiling,
and floor, Black bed, comforter, and sheets. Black lamps. Black throw
rugs. Black this. Black that. Fuck, Tag mused, the only fucking thing
not black in here is us! 

"Geez, Wanda," he swept a hand around the all black room. "Where the
fuck were you when the rainbow was invented?" Wanda giggled. 

"Black, dear boy, is magical!" 

One thing was for sure, Taggart Oliver Bonewell felt anything but
magical just being in this black hole of Calcutta. But an amusing
thought ran through his mind: I think I'll buy Wanda a box of black
Trojans as a thank you gift. 

They'd fit right in with this pagan decor . . .

* * * * * *

THE WEEK FLEW BY. On Monday, Tag reported for work as the new house
dick at the Wellington Hotel. He now stood on the sidewalk across the
street from  the place and took a deep breath. 

He looked at the hotel's facade. It looked old world mixed with new
world renovations. Four large, ornate concrete columns, two on each
side, flanked the main entrance's large glass doors. A uniformed
doorman stood on a blood red V.I.P carpet that looked as if it was
embedded in black marble. The carpet and the marble went all the way
out to the curb.

Tag looked up toward the top of the twelve story high building. He saw
what looked like many gargoyles strung out across the roof's edge.
Gargoyles? He thought, Why? Who can even see them way up there?
Insanity! Total fucking insanity. He looked back at the entrance and
crossed the street toward the doorman. Here we go, he thought . . . 

* * * * * *

TAGGART OLIVER BONEWELL reported for his new job as house dick of the
Wellington Hotel, not only on time, but an hour early. He wasn't due
to log in until 11:30 a.m. and it was now only 10:25.

As he stood in the hotel lobby, his immediate overall impression was
one of old money with distinct overtones of new money. Rich folk live
here, Tag thought, make no mistake. Ostentatious and gaudy rich folk,
judging from all the fake gold trim and the fake marble this and faux
marble that. Assuming it was all fake, that is. If not, fuck it then,
it's worth a fortune. 

As he strolled through the lobby, he had the impression that it was
all put together by an insane interior designer, who not only knew the
first Queen Elizabeth personally, he had amplified her idea of what
the word ornate meant. Many gold cherubs, their little gold wings
frozen in time, sat on white, or sometimes black, marble topped
tables. 

To Tag, the silly looking angels seemed to have no purpose other than
to occupy space and to jar one's sensibilities. He had a burning
desire to knock the head off of one particularly annoying looking
little angelic bastard. The ugly thing stood on its black marble base
on one foot, it's arms outstretched as if saying, "Fair catch! I got
it! It's mine! " It had a shit-eating grin on its puss.  As he passed
by it, he whispered, "Next time, you widdle fucker! Say bye-bye to
your widdle yellow head!" He smiled as he passed by it. He hoped it
had heard the threat.

The lobby had all the usual city-within-a-city amenities that most
hotels offer out of necessity. A florist. Hair salon. Gift shop.
Tailor. You get the idea. Oh, and a bar and cafe called The Den. 

Tag decided to check this place out a little more firsthand. As he
headed toward the bar/cafe, Tag played a little mind game that he
usually played. I will not, he thought, think of anything with the
word Den in it. No Den of Iniquity. No Den of Thieves. Or Daniel in
the lion's Den. Then he said  aloud, in a melodic sing-song fashion,
"Den, Den, Den, Den . . . Den." He was now Den free! At least in his
mind.

He entered and found himself in a place that had no idea that lights
had been invented. The lighting was so low, he had to take a few
minutes to allow his eyes to adjust. His first visual scene was of
some old guy in a booth feeling up a young woman. His niece, mused
Tag. Naughty, naughty, you old fuck. He made his way to the long bar
and sat at the short end.

Where he was seated gave him a perfect view of the odd couple. She now
had a hand on his crotch and was moving it back and forth. Hmm, Tag
thought, the idle rich sure know how to be idle.

With the idea of not overdoing the booze firmly planted in his mind,
especially on his first day, he ordered a Scotch on the rocks, splash
of soda, twist of lemon. 

Tag had just taken a second sip when a woman, at least it appeared to
be a woman in the low light, sat down beside him. 

She whispered, "I've been following you, Mr. Bonewell!" The way she
had said it made the hair on his neck stand up. The voice was sexy,
but it had an undercoating of being threatening, with a trace of
menace in it. But Tag didn't feel too alarmed. Strange women had
followed him many times before. Most, however, didn't know his name.

He turned to face her. She looked harmless enough to him. Fortyish.
Attractively packaged. Nice threads. A tight-fiting beige colored knit
dress that displayed her shape beautifully. Nice titties, too, he
noticed. A glance downward told him the legs weren't too shabby,
either. But, he mused, it could be the lighting. He squinted at her
and took another go around. Nope, it wasn't the lighting. She was a
dish.

"You have?" he said. "Why would you want to tail little old me?" He
was being playful. But if she reached into her purse, she'd bring her
hand out missing an arm. Which would make rubbing her broken jaw
awfully tough to do. Instead, however, she reached for his drink and
took a big sip. He allowed her to keep the arm. 

"Ugh!" she said. "Scotch! Almost as bad as Bourbon!" She licked her
lips and smiled at him. "Tell me, Mr. Bonewell, where have all the
nice Sherry and Brandy drinkers gone?" She giggled, a light giggle,
and very feminine sounding. He took the hint, if it was a hint.

"How about I buy you a nice Sherry. Or, if you prefer, a nice Brandy.
OK?" Might as well be nice. You never know. Might lead to getting
lucky. It had before. Or, he knew, she could be someone important in
this hotel.

"That would be nice. Tell Paul." she aimed a thumb at the bartender,
"to mix up Mrs. Merganthal's usual. He'll know what to do. Then we can
get on a nice first name basis, if that's all right with you." It was.
He felt nice all over. 

He gave Paul the instructions and when her drink arrived, which looked
like a plain old whiskey sour to him, he toasted to "New friendships."
They clinked their glasses together.

She took a sip and said, "I'm Mrs. Merganthal, Mr. Bonewell, that's
Mrs. and not that awful sounding Ms. How do you do?" She put out a
hand. Tag shook it and said, "Fine, Mrs. Merganthal, and I'm please to
meet you, too, but what happened to your first name idea? I kinda
liked that one." He smiled at her and took a sip, peering at her over
the glass. She smiled back at him.

"Oh, yes, I forgot. I have, you see, a wee bit of trouble with my
short term memory these days, but that's a long, boring story. My real
first name is Henrietta, but I hate that name so much that if you ever
call me by it, I swear I shall cut both your nuts clean off." She
smiled, baring her teeth. "Most folks just call me Mergie." Tag sensed
there wasn't too many things old fashioned about Mergie. Cut both my
nuts off, indeed! 

"Mergie it will be then, Mergie. And be assured, I won't call you Hen
. . . you know, that other name you hate like hell." He grabbed his
crotch and shammed great pain. "For I've grown accustomed to the
little fellas and I'd be real heart broken if we should ever part
company." She laughed. "And you, Mergie, can call me Tag. Or Taggart.
Or any other fucking thing you can dream up. I answer to them all. I'm
shameless that way." He grinned at her. He'd purposely used the word
fucking to test her reaction to it. There was none. Mergie took it in
stride. My kind of gal, thought Tag. He saw potential.

Mergie took a sip and said, "Did you know, Tag, that there are
nineteen places on a woman's body that can be easily aroused, even by
the mere use of the word fuck?" Now she peeked at him over her glass
as she took another small sip. She was grinning. He leaned toward her
and whispered conspiratorially:

"Really, Mergie. I didn't fucking know that." He liked the drift to
this little chat. "I guess I stopped my fucking education soon after I
fucking figured out where the fuck the fucking G Spot was and where it
was fucking located on a fucking woman's body. Capish?" She laughed
and almost spilled her drink.

"Damn you, Tag, you've lit up at least fifteen of the darling secret
places already!" She might have been blushing, but it was still too
dark for Tag to tell.

"Only fifteen? Let's go for the last four, shall we, Mergie, old gal?
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" He had put extra emphasis on each eff. He
took a sip and looked straight into her eyes.

"Oooh." She said. "Nice, but I think two of them went astray. Do it
again, will you?" Oh, yeah, he definitely liked where it was going.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! How's that?" He heard her let out a little
moan. This conversation was beginning to really get to him. His crotch
area told him that much. He and Mergie were fast becoming good
friends. Very good friends. But anything further would have to wait
for later, for she stood up, peeked at her watch, and said:

"Time's tight now, Tag. For both of us. You've got to go see our dear
Mr. Smoot and I have a few errands to run. But I assure you, we'll get
together later. I'm to be your personal hotel guide, Tag, as you'll
soon hear from old Smootie." She polished off the dregs in her glass.
"It's been real fun, Taggy, Darling, but I've gotta run." She gathered
up her purse and made ready to leave. He reached out and placed his
hand gently on her arm, lightly squeezing it.

"Same here, Mergie, real fun. And when we get together later, don't
forget to bring your nineteen spark plugs. OK?" He was testing the
future water.

"Bring 'em? Hell, Tag, treat me real nice and I'll show 'em to you!
One by one and up close and personal like. That is, If you'd like a
lesson that goes beyond the G Spot." Lesson? Hell, Tag just lived for
lessons. Especially when the teacher looked like Mergie.

She leaned over and kissed him full on the lips, leaving no doubt
about the future water. It was a really quick kiss. Her tongue did a
one-time dip into his mouth, pulled out, and went bye-bye along with
its owner.

As Tag stood there watching her walk away in the dimly lit room, he
felt his crotch signal that he had better get some proper perspective
before his meeting with Mr. Smoot. How would it look, he thought, to
be picked up on suspicion of stealing a salami from the hotel deli and
hiding it in my trousers? Old Smootie might get a tad pissed.

But he knew he had just enough time to at least get a good gander at
her backside as she stepped into the bright lighting of the lobby. He
wasn't disappointed, either. Nice ass. Wide and firm looking. And it
looked fantastic in the beige colored knit dress that did its best,
but failed, to hide the well-rounded twin globes. If anything, it
amplified the double beauties. Then, Mergie was gone. Tag paid Paul
and went out into the lobby in search of Smoot's office. 

A glance at his watch told him he still had twenty minutes before
Smoot time. He decided to check out the florist shop. He sauntered in
and saw a woman behind the counter. An attractive woman, who seemed
about to say something. He beat her to the punch by saying, "Hi there,
I'm Tag Bonewell, the new hotel house dick. I'm not buying, not yet,
just acquainting myself with the lay of the land, so to speak. How are
you?" She smiled at him and let him see her nice, even teeth. He also
liked the looks of her nice, full lips.

"Oh, hello Mr. Bonewell. I heard you were coming. I'm Cheryl Wade.
Most just call me Cherry. Welcome aboard the Wellington." She put out
a hand. Cherry? Hmm, he thought, my first? He decided to throw out a
little test in that direction. Just to see if she was a prude or a
player. He shook her hand and held onto it..

"Thanks, Cherry. But please call me Tag. And I must say, you've got
super hearing!" He waited, still holding her hand.

"I do, Tag? What told you that?" Here it comes.

"You said you heard I was cumming!" He had emphasized the cumming
part. He looked at her, waiting. It was a stale old line, but still
fun to spring now and then. True, it bordered on sexual harassment,
but you only live once.

Cherry was quick-witted and no prude. She squeezed his hand and said,
"Are you usually so noisy when you come? I know I am!" She had
stressed the word come and squeezed his hand again. Tag like this so
far.

"I can be downright cacophonous, Cherry. Perhaps we should compare
decibel levels sometime. That could be fun, you think?" Now he
squeezed her hand. She gave one more tiny reciprocal squeeze,
extracted her hand and said, "Yes. We can call it our . . . coming out
party!" She laughed. A girlish laugh. He liked her laugh. He'd love to
hear it in bed sometime soon. He felt he would.

"Well, Cherry, I hate to leave, but I have a date with Mr. Smoot and I
don't want to have to tell him I was late because I took the time to
plan a . . . coming out party." He grinned at her. "He might want an
invite." She laughed.

"Smootie? I don't think so, Tag, he doesn't like noise of any kind."
Tag laughed. They said their goodbyes and Tag headed for his meeting
with his new boss, the noise hating Mr. Smoot.

Less than ten minutes later, Tag was seated across the desk from Mr.
Smoot. Or, as the nameplate on his black marble-topped desk announced
in gold letters on a black marble background (surprise!) Mr. Raymond
Q. Smoot, Executive Manager. Smoot was on the phone and was just
winding down a conversation.

Q? mused Tag. Quigly? Quentin? Quiff? Quiff? That means pussy in some
parts of the country. Smoot did fit that description a tad. He was a
small guy and decidedly feminine in his mannerisms. He held the phone
with his pinky sticking out into space. The way dainty rich ladies
coddled a drink. Smoot ended his call.

Tag was told by Mr. Raymond (Quiff) Smoot, that he, Mr. Taggart O.
Bonewell, could take the rest of the week to orient himself to the
hotel. The dick he was replacing, Mr. Ivan Shakely, was finishing out
the week.

"Call me Tag, Mr. Smoot." He liked things friendly and amiable.

"Fine then, Tag it is, and you can call me Mr. Smoot, Tag?" Shit,
thought Tag, one of those! Well, fuck it! I've already sold my soul to
the devil, so why not the rest of me? I want to be a team hooker,
don't I?

"Fine then, Smoot it is." He had purposely left out the Mister, but
had smiled warmly at the man. Smoot frowned and ran a hand through his
hair. Tag noticed the man's entire head of hair had shifted slightly.
Not a lot, but enough to tell Tag the man wore a toupee. A rug. But a
damned good rug, thought Tag. He tickled himself with the musing of
why wasn't it made out of faux gold? Or black marble?

"I'll make sure," Smoot said, "that old Ivan makes time to fill you in
during the rest of the week on the small details you'll need to
operate. You know, computer passwords, entry cards, the usual stuff.
He'll also tell you how to have a firearm assigned to you. Any firearm
of your choosing, Tag. You name it, we have it. Glock? Baretta? .38?
But no need to choose now. Wait for Ivan. Now, so far, I haven't told
you anything you can't handle, I assume."

"No problem, Mr. Smoot." The phone rang and as Smoot picked it up, Tag
reflected. He had a personal penchant for the 9mm Glock. The Baretta
lacked stopping power and the .38 had too few shots for his liking.
But let's hope, he thought, I never have to use it. 

In his six years on the police force he'd had to use it just once.
Much to the chagrin of a now departed drug dealer. Why the fool
couldn't see he was in a hopeless situation and should have simply
surrendered, Tag could only guess at, but when the guy went for his
gun, well, it was hasta la vista, baby time. Smoot was back.

"Now in the meantime, Tag, why don't you just absorb yourself in the
hotel. See the sights, so to speak. I think you'll like your apartment
suite, which is by the way, Suite 901, on the ninth floor. It has a
breathtaking view of the city, the park and the lake." He handed Tag a
room entry card with 901 in large block type printed on it. "Later,
I'll also introduce you to Mrs. Henrietta Merganthal. She'll be, so to
say, your guide to all of the hotel's little ins and outs." Smoot then
put on a very serious look.

"Mrs. Merganthal is an attractive woman, Tag, very attractive, but
don't get any funny ideas. She's not up for grabs, in case your mind
thinks in that direction, which I hope it does not. Got that?" Tag
smiled and nodded. Twice. Smoot went on.

"Good. But, to fill you in on her a tad more, she doesn't work for the
hotel. She's a paying guest who resides here. Lives in one of the
penthouse apartments up on the eleventh floor. Has more money than
Croesus ever dreamed of, but don't get any funny ideas in that
department, either. OK?" Tag nodded twice again. Shit, he thought, if
I nod any more times, I'll feel like a fucking bobble-head doll!

Smoot continued. "She's also a personal friend, a very personal
friend, of Mr. David Cunningham's, the owner, so tread lightly, young
man. Cunningham took her under his wing, so to speak, after her poor
husband, Cyrus, passed on. She volunteers her services around the
hotel to, I assume, keep herself busy. And, because she's been here
over twenty years now, even before the big renovation, no one knows
more about what's what in this place than she does. I think you'll
find her an invaluable ally. So, Tag, try to stay on her good side.
OK?" The bobble-head doll did its nodding job once more. Smoot went
on.

"Well, Tag, I believe I've covered most things. For now. You take the
rest of the week and just enjoy yourself. If you have any questions,
feel free to come to me or to Ivan. Welcome to the Wellington staff,
Tag." He reached across the desk and offered a hand. Tag shook it and
said, "Thank you, Mr. Smoot. I believe I'll like working here." He
really believed he would. 

Back in the lobby, he took out his cell phone and called Lucy. She
answered on the first ring. Poor darling, he thought, pining away for
me by the phone. "Hi, Luce, guess who the fuck this is?"

"Don't tell me! I know! It's Mr. Boneher-and-talk-dirty-on-the-phoner!
Alias my boss. Alias my favorite house dick! How's the first day
going, Taggy-poo?" He laughed. That Lucy! He could always count on her
to brighten up his day.

"Terrific! Fantastic! What else can I say? It's been . . . "

"Uh oh, you've met a new cunt, haven't you, Taggy-poo-poo?"

"Damn, Lucy, you should be the detective, not me. You're good, girl!
What gave it away? My not too frequent display of exuberance?" He
laughed.

"The word fantastic, Taggynuts. You're the only man on the planet who
spells it cee you en tee!" She laughed. "What's she like and when's
our first ménage à trois?" She made heavy breathing noises, sounding
very much the pervert.

"Well, Luce, her name is Mergie and she may be twice your age, but
she's still got it, if you get my drift. And . . . "

"Still got it? By your standards, Taggy, that means she has a pulse!
Or have you gone necrophilous on me?" She giggled girlishly. She was
having fun.

"Me? Fuck a corpse? Never again! Besides, she drinks whiskey sours.
I'd like to see a dead body pull that little trick off. And she has
this dainty way of sipping and farting at the same time. And you
should see how nicely she makes funny noises with her armpits." Tag
was on a roll now. Lucy was laughing and trying to listen at the same
time. "Not to mention how delicately her pussy can pick up a quarter
off the piano, even lying flat. The quarter, that is, not her pussy.
Or the piano."

"Sounds like your kind of girl. Mine, too. Have you Tagged her yet?"
He knew what she meant by the word Tagged. "Not yet, old gal, but it
looks like it'll happen before the day's out."

"You're slowing down, Taggela, in your mid-life crisis. When do I get
to meet her? Tomorrow? That is, if the poor thing can still walk!" She
laughed.

"Not tomorrow, hon. Nor anytime during the whole week. Which is one of
the reasons I called. I won't have my own office until next Monday.
Old Ivan, whom I'm to replace, won't be cleared out until Friday. So,
you have the rest of the week off, with pay. OK?"

"Sure, Tag. No prob. I have a ton of things I can do to keep me from
going stir crazy. Like picking up a gang of winos and teaching them
what a real woman can do with a crowd of wine-soaked perennials. They
seem to like screwing a sober woman for a change. Kills the monotony
drinking brings." She giggled.

"I never know when you're kidding, Lu. But then again, you do like red
wine! It goes so well with fetid wino breath à la king."

"Listen, Tag. What about your suite? Can't I at least see that? It
would keep a few winos off of me for a while."

"Good idea. Let me see how the afternoon goes and I'll call you. And
Luce? I hate to say this, but could you dress, uh, well, a little bit
more . . uh . . . well . . . demurely? This place is run by a stiff-
assed, anal retentive type guy and, well, you know. I don't . . . "

"Stop squirming, Taggy. I take no offense at your asshole manly
insensitivity. I know I dress like a slut at times, well, most times,
but I also have many very lady-like office duds. It'll be fun dressing
up and surprising you. I guarantee, Tag, you sweet, perverted
hypocrite, you won't recognize me."

"Luce, you know how it is. Play the game and all." He hoped she did.

"Taggy, Taggy, Taggy! Will you relax, for Christ's sake? It's no big
deal, really. How do you think I dressed before I went to work at your
dumpy little place? If you remember my resume, which you would if your
eyes hadn't been glued to my boobies, I worked for a law firm. Talk
about strait-laced! They had a pamphlet that outlined their dress code
that had to be twenty pages long. And each salient point mentioned
man-tailored suits. No skirts, mini or otherwise." She took a breath.
"So, don't worry, fella, from here on out, I'm Ms. Lucy Fern,
executive secretary to Mr. Boneher-with-a-dry-hump, the biggest dick
in the hotel biz. OK?"

Tag laughed and said, "OK, Luce. Ha ha! I'll call you later." They
said their goodbyes and hung up. He loved Lucy.

* * * * * * 

TAG went up to the front desk and asked for Mr. Ivan Shakely's suite
number. Old Ivan also had a ninth floor office/apartment, suite 915. A
quick elevator ride and Tag found himself in front of old Ivan's door.
He knocked gently a few times and, out of instinct, tried the
doorknob. To his surprise, it opened. Some security, he thought.
Shakely must be the trusting type.

He went in and heard murmurings coming from an inner office room. His
experience told him that someone was having sex. He tiptoed up to the
open door and stole a peek in. Yep, sex it was, and that someone must
be old Ivan, a man who looked well into his sixties. Shiny wrinkled
ass and all.

Ivan was standing against a desk, his trousers and shorts down around
his ankles, and his firm, 7'" large-headed pecker was being sucked off
vigorously by a woman in a tight-fitting, beige colored knit dress. A
very Mergie-like knit dress. What clinched the I.D. was her purse.
Same one. No two ways about, old Mergie was doing old Ivan and, from
what Tag could see, doing a fine job of it, too. What a hotel! What a
job! What a life! He liked it all. And a free car to boot!

Tag started to back up, again in tippy-toe fashion, to keep the
couple's privacy, but then had a better idea. Shock value! He walked,
no, strode, right into Ivan's office and said, "Oops! Pardon me. I
knocked, but I guess you didn't hear me come in." Tag just stood there
awaiting their reactions.

Ivan jumped back as if he'd been scalded, and said, "Who the fuck are
you . . .?"

Mrs. Henrietta Merganthal simply stood up and said, "Oh, hi, Tag. We
meet again!" She didn't even blush. Tag liked that fact. His kind of
woman.

Tag said, "Listen you two, if I've come at a bad time . . . !" That
Tag! A clown to the end.

Ivan, more composed now, pulled up his clothing and zipped himself up.
He was blushing so much his face looked like a beet. He tried to say
something, but only sputtered. Mergie took over.

"Ivan, get a grip, willya! So Tag caught us in an oral act. So what?
This is your last week for Christ's sake!" She turned to Tag. "Tell
him to lighten up, Tag. Tell him that if he does lighten up, I'll
finish what I started and you're welcome to watch." Old Ivan's eyes
were popped out. He was speechless. Floored by it all.

Tag said, "If I were you, Ivan, I'd listen to the lady. And if you're
shy about me watching, just close your fucking eyes! OK?" He thought
he handled that pretty tactfully. He felt proud of himself.

Ivan surprised him by saying, "What the fuck! First you surprise me,
then Mergie does. I thought my frigging heart had stopped! But, hey, I
ain't shy, Buddy. If you'd be so kind as to lock the outer door, you
can watch to your heart's content." He already had his pants and
shorts back down to the floor and was massaging his cock back into its
unnaturally woody state.

Tag was back in less than a minute. He took a seat and moved it closer
to where the action would take place. Nothing like front row seats.
Tag was liking his new job more and more. Mergie knelt down before old
Ivan. Old Ivan looked nutty lecherous. So much so, his tongue was
hanging out and he was breathing heavily.

"Now, Mergie, old gal," Ivan said. "Show this snotnose whippersnapper
what you can do! Eh?" He took his rigid penis and placed the newly-
gorged head onto her bottom lip. Whether Mergie was inspired by having
an audience or not, Tag didn't know, but one thing was for sure.
Mergie sucked cock like a pro. She swirled and, twirled her tongue,
and whirled her head. Her tongue flashed in and out, all along the
shaft. She deep-throated old Ivan with the ease of one who has
practiced a ton. Tag felt his boner talk to him. 

In a giddy mood, Tag grinned and imagined his penis saying, "Let me
out, you dumb fuck! I've been cooped up long enough. I've places to
go, people to see. There are pussies, asses, and mouths to fill. Who's
gonna do it, if not me?"

Then an idea hit Tag. "Hey, you two, would you mind if I had the fun
of doing some cocksucking directing?" Ivan looked at him and said,
"Why not? Knock youself out." Mergie, her mouth still around cock,
merely said, "Hmm hmm!" Tag started to remove his pants and shorts.

"Now, Mergie, I want you to suck his balls, both of them, until their
sopping wet. Use both your lips and tongue. OK?" She answered in the
affirmative by placing her mouth on old Ivan's nutsack and slurping
noisily away, taking each nut fully into her mouth. The sound she made
had a profound effect on the two men.

Ivan moaned and said, "Fucking kid knows how to direct, Merg. That
feels super, just fucking super. Ooooh, yes! That's great, woman." 

"Now, Mergie," Tag said. "I want you to use the same wet tongue and
lip action on his entire shaft. Get it sloppy, too. And don't hold or
swallow your saliva. Just let it pour out. It's called, appropriately
enough, a saliva suck." She complied, working up and down the shaft,
her saliva bubbling out and dripping onto her chin and onto the rug.
Old Ivan was in heaven.

"Now, Mergie dear," Tag said. "Let's suck on the head a few times and
then deep-throat him. Again, letting your saliva flow freely." She
followed the instructions carefully. Four up and downs on the swollen
cockhead and then, swoosh, right down to his pubes. Tag said, "Keep
doing that, Mergie. Work the head, then deep-throat. And don't forget
to let your saliva flow."

As Mergie obeyed, her saliva was soon cascading down old Ivan's cock
shaft and puddling up all around the base. The more she sucked, the
more saliva popped out. It was river-like. It was some sight. And the
sound of it would excite even a brass monkey. 

Old Ivan just stood there, moaning and moaning, a glazed look on his
face. Tag knew old Ivan was close to cumming. He was right. A minute
or so later, Ivan yelled, unashamedly, "I'm going to cum, baby!
Swallow me, baby! Now! Here I cum, baby. Oh, oh, oh. Ooooooooo fuck!"
He unloaded both balls into Mergie's eager mouth. The two men heard
her swallow audibly. Twice.

There was a silence for a moment and then Ivan broke it. "Shit, Tag, I
haven't cum like that in years! Your being here and talking about it
seemed to add a new dimension to it all. Damn, I liked that!" He
licked his lips. Mergie was still on her knees as Ivan got dressed.
"Thanks, Mergie!" Ivan said, looking down at her. 

Mergie looked back up at Ivan and said, "Oh, you're welcome, Ivan, and
you're right, you did cum more than your usual. Mmm mmm, delicious!"

Mergie, still kneeling, looked over at Tag. "You want to be next or do
you only direct and not perform?" She giggled and ran her tongue
seductively around her lips. Tag didn't have to be asked twice.

He rolled his tie and shirt up to nipple height and said, "How about
removing your top, Mergie, I like to play with nipples while I'm being
fellated." She hesitated. This small hesitation clue told Tag that the
lady wore a girdle. She was trying to figure out how to get her top
off, it being a one-piece knit suit and all,  without revealing the
fact. He gave her an assist.

"Here, let me help you, Mergie." He went behind her and undid the back
buttons. He pulled the top down to her waste, unfastened her bra and
removed it from her. He went back around to her front for a look-see.
He liked what he saw.

Her breasts were not as firm as he imagined they once were, but they
looked soft and very feminine. Each sported an oversized aerola and
had cute, little pea-sized nipples that now stood out erectly. He
reached for her and brought his face down to her left breast. He
suckled its nipple a little, feeling the pea get even harder under his
lips. He then kneaded both breasts, tweaking each pea into even
greater hardness. Mergie moaned. She liked that. And it didn't take a
Sherlock to figure that out, either.

Tag shot a glance at old Ivan. The guy was seated in a chair, the same
chair Tag had used, and had his pants unzipped and his prick out. He
was stroking it and had his tongue out, too. He looked depraved, but
very happily depraved.

Tag sucked Mergie's nipples a bit longer, then stopped. He went to
Ivan's desk and pushed things aside to make room for Mergie to lie
down. He then told her to lie on her back on the desk with her head
hanging over the edge. She complied without hesitation.

This position had the added effect of making each of Mergie's titties
flatten out and point slightly to her sides. Tag positioned himself at
her head, her mouth at the perfect height for his dick. He then
pressed his 8" bloated hardon against her mouth. She immediately got
the idea, opened her mouth and took him in. They both heard Ivan moan,
but neither of them looked in his direction.

Tag slowly fed his long, thick cock into her mouth. Inch by inch it
went in. Her throat, now beautifully aligned with his dick, had no
trouble swallowing the large member. In a short while, Tag's balls
were resting on Mergie's forehead and nose. He started a slow and very
deliberate in and out fucking motion. Ivan was now moaning up a storm
and pulling on his pecker gleefully.

As Tag mouth-fucker her, he kneaded both breasts and tweaked her
nipples. Mergie was moaning now, too. Tag joined in on the moanfest.
The room sounded as if a hive of bees had been let loose.
"Hmmmmmmmmmm!"

They both heard old Ivan say, "Oh, shit, that looks so fucking lewd,
so fucking good! I'm gonna cum again! Holy fucking shit. Twice in one
day! Ohhhhhhh, here I go!" The desk couple were also moaning at the
same time.

Finally, Tag was ready for the blessed release and relief. He pulled
his cock out just far enough to leave only the head in her mouth. With
a loud moan, he unloaded, and unloaded, and fucking unloaded. The
scene, Mergie, the idea of it all, and old Ivan being there, all
conspired to make him hotter than usual. 

The cum just poured out of him and dear, sweet Mergie received it all.
All three tablespoons worth. All nine teaspoons. She managed to
swallow most of it, but the awkard position of her throat made proper
swallowing somewhat difficult. Tag's cum flowed down into her nose,
onto her forehead, into her eyes. She was awash in this facial cum
bath. And squirming and moaning to beat the band. Finally, it was
over.

The next few minutes were hectic. Mergie had somewhere to go to and
she was already running behind time. In a trice, she was gone, leaving
two very satisfied and happy men alone in the house dick's office. Tag
got dressed. Ivan was already dressed. 

"Sorry about the carpet, Ivan." Tag said, half quipping.

"Fuck the carpet, Tag. That was some  fucking hot scene. Man, it makes
me sorta sorry I have to move to California. Bigger salary or no."

"Well, Ivan, you still have all week. Think she'll be up for some
more?"

"Oh, yeah, for sure. And with that King Kong dick I saw on you, Bucko,
she'll fairly insist on it!" He laughed. Tag followed suit and asked,
"None of my business, Ivan, but just how long have you two been . . .
uh . . . fooling around?"

"Shit, man, it's been years now. Even when that eunuch of a husband of
hers, Cyrus, was kicking around and bitching. He was so fucking dumb I
often wondered how he made so much money. And the bastard was fucking
his daughter, too. Oops! That slipped out, Tag. Mergie doesn't know
and I hope you don't tell her." Ivan looked very embarrassed. 

"Don't worry, Ivan. I don't like to hurt people. Mum's the word. But
how do you know for sure he was doing the daughter?"

"Caught the fucker! Red handed. They didn't see me, but I saw them. He
had the girl in the back seat of his limo and shit, she wasn't no more
than twelve at the time, and the car was parked where it shouldn't
have been. Well, I went over to check it out and opened the driver's
side door and there they were. He had his back to me and was between
her legs fucking her into the seat, his naked, sweaty ass glistening
in the dome light. I'll never forget the picture. She would have seen
me if her head hadn't been buried on the other side of his face. Well,
I slammed the car door shut and high-tailed it the hell out of there."

"No cops?"

"You crazy? Cy Merganthal's money would have buried me for sure, if he
didn't just go out and hire someone to do the burying for him, if you
get my meaning." Old Ivan had a scared look on his face. Tag himself
would have reported the fucker, but he understood Ivan's position.

"I get you. Where's the kid now?"

"Killed herself . . . on sleeping pills. Right in her Daddy's very own
bed. She was seventeen or so, I think. I guess she was trying to send
him a message. Must have worked, too, because Cy changed real
drastically after that. Took to drinking hard. Didn't eat. Died not
much later, in fact. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I always say."

"Amen to that, Ivan. You think Mergie ever knew or suspected?"

"No I don't. Mergie, bless her sweet heart, walks through this world
with blinders on while looking through a pair of rose-colored glasses.
Losing a daughter and husband in the same year might have affected
some folks, but she just sailed right through it. I guess you could
say she's a dyed-in-the-wool fatalist. Whatever happens, happens and
there's no good in crying about it. That's Mergie, for sure."

"Yeah," Tag said. "She seems like a very special kind of woman. Well,
Ivan, shall we get down to the business of you filling me in and
getting me a decent Glock?" Ivan just nodded. It was back to business.
Hotel business.

* * * * * *

TAG had thought of going down the hall of the ninth floor and taking a
peek at his new home, suite 901, but he had a better idea. He'd see it
the first time with Lucy. They would share the magical moment, so to
speak. That Tag. Who says he's not romantic? He called Lucy and told
her he'd meet her in the lobby as soon as she got there.

Twenty minutes later, Tag was, with Lucy beside him, entry-carding the
door to suite 901. He swung the door wide and turned to Lucy. Before
she knew what hit her, he had scooped her up in his arms and carried
her across the threshhold. He thought he heard her swoon as he
deposited her a few feet inside the door.

As she steadied herself, she said, "That was fun, Daddy, can we do it
again?" He laughed.

"Yeah, kid, but only if you carry me this time. OK?" She winced at
him.

"Yeah, right, big fella, and who's gonna pay my hospital bill?"

"Well, Luce," Tag said as he looked around. He didn't like what he
saw. Gold gilt everywhere and black and white marble everywhere else.
And three of those fucking gold cherubs. "Whadya think of my new
place? Kinda chintzy, eh what?"

"No, Tag," Lucy replied. "It's nice. Very nice. High classy and all.
Especially the little gold angels." Oh, fuck, thought Tag. It's all
uphill from here on. Lucy continued. "And all that wonderful marble,
Tag. I'll bet that marble cost a pretty penny, too." She looked
entranced. He looked ill. And felt ill.

They took the Cook's tour of the place, Lucy oohing and aahing as if
it was the first time she had ever seen gold, white, and black used so
cleverly in the company of gold-faced cherubs. 

Lucy pointed a finger toward one of the angels. "Oooh, Tag, my father
has one just like that in his office. Same black marble base, too.
Isn't it just precious?" He simply nodded, not wanting to bust her
exuberance bubble.

"Aah!" Lucy said, running her fingers over a gold edged picture frame.
"This is real gold, Tag, not faux gold. I'm impressed!" He wasn't. But
he followed her around and made a point of not carping or complaining
or even, for that matter, letting out a groan, even a small one. She
led. He followed.

He heroically stood it for half an hour or more. But if he now heard
one more, "Aah, Tag, look at this!" or an, "Ooh, Tag, look at that!"
he knew he would use the 9mm Glock much earlier than he could ever
have anticipated. He patted the Glock, which nestled snuggly in it's
shoulder holster on his left side. What jury of his peers would
convict him after just one look at those fucking, gaudy, yellow faced
little monsters? He mused to himself:

"Although the defendant, Taggart Oliver Bonewell, admits to shooting
one Ms. Lucy Fern to death by emptying his 9mm Glock into her, hacking
up her body into 72 absolutely equal parts, and then throwing them,
one by one, out of the window of suite 901, we, a jury of his peers,
find him not guilty by reason of circumstances beyond his control, or
for that matter, beyond the control of any sensible human being with a
modicum of good taste. So say we all!" All twelve jurors then stormed
the prosecutor's table and proceeded to smash evidence exhibits A, B,
and C, reducing them to gold cherub dust in mere minutes.

Lucy brought him back to reality, not realizing just how close she had
come to being the recipient of the Glock's first slug by saying,
"Oooh! Come in her and look at this, tag!" She was in the master
bathroom. Tag headed in her direction, giving the Glock a warm and
loving pat.

He found her at the sink, looking fondly at a pair of gold swan
faucets. The twin swans had their wings spread wide as if about to fly
off the sink and head south for the winter. The top of the sink was
(need it be said?) black marble.

Taggart tapped one of the gold-plated swans and said, "They sort of go
with the rest of the schmaltzy gold-gilt decor, don't you think? Gives
new meaning to the word ostentatiousness, eh, Luce?" 

Poor schnook, he was still trying to reach some point of human reason
in her oohing and aahing brain. Fat chance, fella. Don't you know
women are a sucker for anything gold? It's in their genes, or
something. Would it surprise anyone to learn that Eve pestered Adam to
dig for gold, melt it down when he found it, and hammer her out a
wedding ring? Could have happened. Who knows? Were you there? Was
anyone?

Lucy reached over and fondled the swan's twin, running her delicate
fingers over the delicate neck. "I think they're rather nice, Tag.
What would you prefer? Oh, I know! Matching gear shifts! With
stainless-steel plating! Now, that's classy. I'll buy you pajamas with
racing cars all over them." She laughed.

"Actually, I'd like that a lot better than these two ugly fake-gold
swans. They look truly stupid, Luce, admit it."

"Now he hates swans! I love swans, Mr. Boneher-in-the-seedy-part-of-
town. Their long, white necks remind me of long, white phallusi." She
grinned at him while she stroked the swan's neck as if working a dick.

"Phallusi? What are you now? A freakin' scientist? And besides, Luce,
old gal, I believe it is phalli, not phallusi." He laughed. "Or
phalluses is OK, too, I believe." He looked superior and rather smug.
But he felt seedy.

"Picky, picky, Mr. Boneher-with-wour-big-phallus-thingie. Perhaps I
should have used the term, long, white penisi. Better?" Ho ho. Another
chance for Mr. Seedy to act superior.

"Much. But it's penes or penises for the plural, Luce, not penisi."
Silly point made. "But look at the clock!" The bullshit aside, it was
time to get ready for their threesome tonight. Tag was looking forward
to it. It had been a long time since Lucy's roommate, Brenda, had
joined them for some wicked fun. And Brenda said she wanted to bring
this well-endowed black guy named Steve. Lucy, Tag thought, had never
done black. He was eager to watch her facial expressions, among many
other things.

* * * * * * 

MONDAY rolled around right after Sunday, as is its habit. Tag was at
his office desk and Lucy Fern, the all business-like Lucy Fern, was
manning the outer office.

A while earlier, Lucy had really surprised Tag. She had shown up at
the office in a grey, man-tailored suit, complete with a white blouse
and a cutesy little black string tie. Black patent leather shoes were
on her feet. With her hair put up in a bun and dyed, it appeared more
strawberry than red. She also had on a pair of horn-rimmed glasses
instead of her usual contact lenses. He hadn't even recognized her.

"May I help you, Ma'am?" He had actually asked her. After he got over
the initial shock and they shared a good laugh, they settled down to
business. Hotel business.

A while later, Lucy rang Tag on the intercom. "Mr. Bonewell, there's a
Mrs. Cyrus Merganthal on line three." Shit, thought Tag, Luce is sure
into this business thing, down to her all business telephone voice.
And no more Mr. Boneher-whatever. He missed that. He'd have to have a
little chit-chat with Lucy. There were limits, after all.

But for now, two could play the all business voice game. "Thank you,
Ms. Fern." He punched three on the phone and picked it up. 

Mrs. Merganthal, Mergie, wanted to know if he was free for a quickie.
He was, and ten minutes later they were seated in her living room.
They chatted about small crap and although Tag was eager to get to the
fun part, he realized she desired a longer talk session. This was fine
by him. What's the rush? She started out with an apology.

"I'm sorry, Tag, that we didn't have the opportunity to get together
last week after our fun with Ivan, but I had to go out of town to a
funeral. Old friend of mine passed on. Did you get my note?"

"Yes, love, I did. You have my condolences on your friend. I spent the
week getting oriented to the hotel, not much to learn in the way of
hard stuff, but I know I would have enjoyed it much more if you had
been there to show me the ropes. In a word, Mergie, I missed you."

"I missed you too, Tag. Very much. I know we hardly know each other,
but I'm a good judge of character and you and I seem to mesh well."
Tag nodded. Then they small talked some more until Mergie said:

"My husband, Cyrus, Tag, lost interest in sex with me right after our
darling daughter, Clarice, or Cee Cee, died. Took her own life, Tag,
right there in Cy's bed." Tag looked quizzical so she attempted to
answer the obvious question. "You see, Cy snored as if sawing
redwoods, so we had separate bedrooms, as was the fashion in those
days, you know." He didn't know. "Well, anyway, Clarice had taken a
whole bottle of sleeping pills and it was Cy who found the poor girl.
He was never quite the same after and died in the same bed a short
time later." Tag remembered what old Ivan had told him.

Sweet Mergie, Tag thought, she truly has no idea about dear, old Dada
and Clarice. Perhaps it's better that way. She was still talking.

" . . . and that's about it. In a sense, Tag, I got you up here on
false pretenses. I know you want to fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, and I do,
too, but alas, we'll have to wait a bit. I have some very important
things to attend to in the next ten minutes. Lawyer crap. I hope you
forgive me, Tag, I just needed a little heart-to-heart. Believe me I
intend to make it up to you next time." She looked sweet. And
vulnerable for some reason. 

"Don't sweat it, Mergie honey, I'm glad I could be here. And, as far
as sex goes, I have complete control of my libido. I don't frustrate
easily. When we do it, we do it. Besides, sweet cheeks, we'll always
have Paris!" He winked and grinned at her.

"Thank you, Tag, for being so sweet and understanding." She stood up
and went over to where he was seated. She leaned down and gave him a
kiss. This time, it was one of those long French ones. He liked the
kiss. And the sweet smell of used oxygen that emanated from her
nostrils as she breathed into him.

They said their goodbyes. On the elevator, Tag caught sight of
something white in his breast pocket. He fished it out. It was a small
envelope, the kind banks use. He opened it and found a note, in blue
type, and ten, crisp $100 bills. Shit, he thought, as he read the
neatly typed note:

My dear Tag: You've come along at the right time in my life and make
me feel renewed somehow. Younger even. I know you probably have views
on accepting gratuities that show appreciation and it probably makes
you feel like a gigolo and all, but I swear, Tag, if you even try to
return it, I'll never speak to you again. I mean that, you big pricked
darling, you. And believe me, I can well afford it. That shithead
husband of mine left me 50 (or is it 70?) million bucks. So, if you
ever want to get into my hot mouth again, you young buckeroo, you'll
take this in the spirit it's intended and enjoy it. Life, in case you
haven't heard, Tag, is too fucking short! Love, M (Fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck,
fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!)  

He counted the fucks even though he already knew the number: 19.

He reread the letter. He looked at the money. Mergie was right. Life
is too fucking short. Why shouldn't he enjoy what money can do? He
pocketed the money and, at peace with himself, a wobbly peace to be
sure, he looked up at the elevator's ceiling and said out loud, "Fuck
it! You listening? I said fuck it! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck . . .
nineteen times!" He smiled at the ceiling. He was surprised when it
didn't smile back. 

A new gigolo had just been born. One that was now a thousand dollars
richer than before. And he hadn't even fucked her yet. . .

* * * * * * 

TAG hadn't been back at his office ten minutes when Lucy told him a
Ms. Greta Stern was on line two. Tag remembered her. He had met her
briefly the week before when old Ivan had him in for one of his many
boring orientation chats. She was a knockout. A brown haired beauty no
older than twenty-five. And a body to die for. And, from what Ivan
told him, a husband who would kill any man who wanted to die for that
body. 

Greta's husband was none other than Jake Stern, a mobbed up type who
owned parts of casinos all over the world. He had passed the squeaky
clean test for gambling licenses, but there were rumors all over the
place about his ties to organized crime. And a few witnesses who had
suddenly developed amnesia. Jake was one guy Tag didn't want to get to
know, let alone get embroiled in something with him. Like Jake's wife,
the luscious Greta.

That Greta had liked him, Tag had no doubts. Christ, he thought, she
couldn't take her eyes off of my crotch long enough to look me in the
eyes. He had almost jumped at her bait, before Ivan's filling him in
on Jake, but instinct, or something, told him to play it aloof and
cagier than usual. He was now glad he had. Once again, thank you inner
voice.

He punched the button for line two. Greta sounded frantic, the words
popping out of her in rapid order. It was hard to understand her at
first, but then the message finally got through. 

"Someone has killed my husband, Mr. Bonewell. I need your help. Please
come up to my penthouse, suite 1219, on the twelfth floor. Please
hurry, Mr. Bonewell. Please."

"Ms. Stern, if someone has murd . . . uh, killed your husband, you
should really call the police. They should handle it. I'm just the
house dick. Would you prefer I call them for you?" He didn't think so.

"No police, Mr. Bonewell, not yet. Please come up and hear me out.
Then, if you like, we can call the cops. But please, hear me out
first. OK?" Tag knew he should have insisted on getting the cops
involved, but, as Ivan had drilled into him, our hotel guests come
first, first even before the fucking Mayor himself. And the governor,
too, when it comes down to it. With this in mind, Tag caved. He hoped
he was doing the right thing. But Jake was dead and he'd still be dead
later.

"OK, Ms. Stern, I'll be there as soon as I can." They hung up and he
was in the Stern's living room in less than fifteen minutes. She
didn't look too shook up, which surprised him. And at the same time,
it didn't.

"Where is he, Ms. Stern?" He hoped he hadn't sounded too morbid.

"Who? Oh, he's in the bedroom closet. And, please, Mr. Bonewell, call
me Greta. May I call you Tag, or do you prefer Taggart?" Christ, he
thought, she's socializing! What's next? Tea and scones on the dead
man's chest?

"Tag is fine, Greta. Now, where is . . . "

"He'll keep, Tag. What would you like to drink? You look like a Scotch
and soda type of man. Am I correct?" Geezy, peezy! Rich folk are
fucking nuts, Tag thought. Well, fuck it, I'll play her game. I know
how to spell aplomb.

"Scotch on the rocks, splash of soda would be fine . . . Greta." The
words sound too ordinary to him for this weird situation. He watched
her carefully as she made their drinks. Not a tremble. Not a tear in
either eye. It appeared that Greta Stern treated a murdered dead
husband in her bedroom closet the same way she would a paper cut.
Maybe even less than that if a bandaid was called for.

As she walked toward him with their drinks, he heard the ice clinking
and the everyday sound seemed to make the situation even weirder. He
took the offered drink. She was in the mood to make a toast. Her glass
was extended toward him.

"Here's to dead husbands, Tag! . . . Cheers." She held her glass out
farther toward him for the expected clink. You're a pip, lady, he
thought. But he could be cute, too.

"May they never come out of the closet!" He clinked her glass.
"Bottoms up!" He took a sip. She grinned at him and took a sip of her
own. The ice, as they say, was broken, but as they peered at each
other over their glasses, the silence of the room seemed loud. Tag
decided to fix that annoying thing.

"Now, Greta, before I get bombed on just one drink, may I take a look
in the bedroom?" He didn't wait for an answer as he crossed the room
toward the bedroom door. Over his should he heard her say, "Be my
guest, you party pooper." What a gal, he thought. Poor dear is just
all choked up. New widowhood can do that to a gal.

He entered the bedroom and didn't even have to open the closet door.
It was wide open already, as if someone had been searching for
something to wear. Tag thought of Greta and the outfit she had on. 

And there was the late Jake Stern. Sitting up, with both eyes wide
open, and a neat, clean hole smackdab in the middle of his forehead.
He also looked quite recently deceased, although a little dishevelled.


The red silk robe he had on had bunched up around his arm pits,
probably from the fall, and his naked, flaccid dick and very hairy
balls were just hanging down for any and all to steal a good gander
at, if they had a mind to. Jake's legs jutted out of the closet,
splayed out wide, and Tag noticed the man wore only one dark red
slipper. The other was nowhere to be seen. 

Tag took a few steps toward Jake and then jumped back and a foot off
the ground. Jake's right eye had winked at Tag! It took Tag a few
seconds to realize that it was a trick of the lighting coming from a
dresser lamp to his right. He found if he moved his head around the
eye would appear to open and close. An illusion. An illusion that
probably took ten years off Tag's life.

He went closer to Jake and did a cursory exam. It looked like a
professional hit job. Small caliber bullet, .22 short probably. It
also looked like the kind of a job a woman, any woman, even a wife,
might do. He knew one thing. A pro usually puts it in the back of the
head, whereas a wife, well, you knows?

He heard Greta come in behind him. His ears, and instinct, told him
she had stopped a few feet behind him and was just standing there,
looking at his back. As the hairs on his neck stood out, he placed his
right hand on the Glock's hand grip. 

He didn't really think she was now enjoying killing and, after doing
hubby so efficiently, she had invited him up for a second whack at all
the fun simply because the closet was roomy enough for two. Or more.
He stood up, pulled the Glock out, and turned, half expectly he'd have
to open fire.

He needn't have worried. She was obviously unarmed. And unclothed. She
just stood there, smiling, her drink in her hand, and as naked as
naked can get. Tag felt mighty stupid pointing his Glock at a totally
naked lady, so he holstered it. She took a sip from her drink. He let
his eyes feast for a bit. If the situation gets any stranger, he
thought, I'm gonna go ape. 

"See, Tag. Just as I told you, Jake's dead. Now, let's fuck, shall
we?" Ape time had just arrived!

"Huh?" He wasn't sure he had heard her correctly. But he knew he had.

"I want you to fuck me, Tag. Right on my bed and right in front of
that bastard Jake." She tossed a thumb at the closet. "That prick,
lord knows, cheated on me enough times. I, believe it or not, never
cheated on him. Not even once. And, believe me, Tag, I had plenty of
offers." Tag didn't doubt that one bit. "So, Tag, fuck me, please. And
let's have Jake watch. It'll be fun! I promise." She moved toward him,
her breasts swaying seductively. Her arms outstretched.

"This is too crazy, Greta. And fucking downright ghoulish. And . . ."
She was near enough now for him to smell her light, delicate perfume.
Close enough to sense her body heat. Her arms were headed toward his
shoulders. 

And, though he hated himself for it, her weird idea coupled with her
absolutely beautiful body, had aroused him. She didn't miss that fact,
either. She changed the course of her right hand, reached down and
pressed it onto his bulge. And squeezed. Twice for emphasis. Her left
hand was around his neck.

"Ghoulish, smoulish, Tag. Jake's dead, for Christ's sake. He ain't
gonna object! And I know that bump in your pants ain't your gun. I saw
you put that away. Didn't I?." She squeezed him again. He decided to
get cute.

"You know, Greta, I normally decline sexual invitations from delicous 
looking naked women who have a fresh husbandly corpse in their closet,
but in your case, my dear, I just might make an exception." 

He pulled her toward him and kissed her, full on the mouth, tongues
aroar. Man, he thought, what a mouth! She kissed him back with a
passion he sensed was long denied her by the rough-ass Jake. Still
kissing her, he opened one eye and stole a peek at the closet. Jake
was watching with glazed over eyes. Enjoy yourself, Jake, Tag thought.

They kissed a second time and he then undressed. The two of them, both
naked now, and still standing less than six feet from Jake's dead
eyes, kissed a third time. It was heaven for them both, but not much
fun for old Jake, it is to be assumed.

Greta dropped to her knees and placed her right hand on the base of
his cock. She looked up at him. "Your big, Tag, nice and big. I like
big. Always have." She put her mouth on the head of his cock and moved
down on it. Tag winced. Her teeth felt way too sharp for his general
comfort. He placed a hand on her chin and tilted her face up toward
him.

"Open your mouth wider, Darling, and use less teeth. OK?" She nodded
and placed her mouth back on his pulsing penis. This time, she felt a
little better to him, but he was still aware of her teeth. Then, all
of a sudden, she jumped a foot in the air, her teeth raking him
painfully. She screamed out, "Ooooooooh, no!"

"What is it?" He hollered at her. Had she lost a tooth? A filling?

"Jake! He winked at me! He's still alive!" She was trembling now. It
took a bit of explaining and persuading to convince her it was just a
trick of light and that Jake, the bastard, was not winking at anyone,
and wouldn't for the rest of eternity.

"Greta, why don't I close the closet door if it bothers you so much?"

"No, Tag. I want him to watch. I want him to see me suck you off and
fuck you silly. I'm all right now, really I am." She knelt before him
once more. Calmed somewhat, she went back to the task at hand. Tag
winced again. Then once more.

Greta tried her best to suck Tag's cock really well, but she was no
Lucy Fern. Or even a Mergie. Far from it. Her mouth was too small and
her teeth way too sharp. They were cutting into him now. Both going
and coming. 

Tag said gently, "Less teeth, dear." She tried her best, but it was a
losing proposition. Shit, he thought, I'd better fuck her before my
dick feels like its gone through a paper shredder!" He winced at the
thought. He'd had enough.

Helping her up from her kneeling position, he picked her up bodily and
placed her gently in the center of the big king-size bed. Her legs
spread wide as she landed, her pussy fully on display. He joined her
on the bed and placed his head between her legs and proceeded to eat
her out. She moaned in response to his first small, tentative lick. He
worked her this way for a while. Then he crawled between her legs and
placed his penis at the entrance to her moist, very ready pussy.

He fucked her gently at first, then quite quickly, and then quite
violently as if she were a rag doll. He bucked and pumped and pistoned
in and out of her. She was getting wilder and wilder with each
stroking action. Her legs would fly out to the sides and then wrap
themselves around his back, his ass, his legs. Her hands were clawing
at his back, her teeth nibbling and biting on his neck and shoulders.
The same sharp teeth she used for dick shredding. It hurt like hell,
but Tag didn't care. He was beyond mere pain.

That she had come, he had no doubts. It was now his turn. He gave one
last series of hard, deep fucks to her hot, wet pussy and then
exploded within her. As he spurted and pulsated deep within, he felt
her cunt muscles flexing and chewing on him, urging him on. He
collapsed onto her and buried his face into her delicate neck. She
moaned and said, "I love you." He knew she didn't mean it for real, so
he said back, "I love you, too." For the moment, they had both meant
it.

He crawled off of her and nestled beside her, taking her into his
arms. They both looked over at Jake at the same time. Jake's dead eyes
were looking right at them. If he had been turned on by what he saw
happen, you'd never know it. His cock was still flaccid. Tag had a
silly idea pop into his head.

"Greta, Jake's not enjoying our little sex show. Why don't you get up
and go suck on his little pricky a bit and give him a treat?" He was
joking, but she surprised him by escaping his arms, leaving the bed,
and rushing over to Jake. 

"Greta, I was only . . . "

As she kneeled down between Jake's hairy outsplayed legs and took the
very dead penis in her hands, wobbling it around, Tag said, "Greta!
You're crazy! You wouldn't . . . " She would. Tag watched as she
engulfed the corpse's prick with her mouth and proceeded to suck on
it. She did this for a time and then stood up.

"No use, Tag, he's impotent! Just like when he was alive!" She joined
Tag in the bed once more. He looked shell-shocked, but he could still
play cutesy.

"Think Viagra would help?" he asked. Then she got cutesy.

"Tag, Jake was such a prick that if he took Viagra he'd only get
taller!" Tag laughed and squeezed her to him. He spoke softly to her.

"Well, this is a new one for me. My first ménage à trois with a
corpse. And the cops will probably arrest you for tampering with the
evidence by leaving your DNA all over Jake's schlong." He squeezed her
again after she had giggled

"Plead insanity, hon. Tell them you thought he was stiff for the first
time in years and you didn't want to miss out, dead or no. They'll go
easy on you when you explain all about the winking eye. How it winked
and winked while we were fucking up a storm right in front of him.
I'll back your story. I'll tell how you cried and cried everytime you
came. Poor new widow, I'll tell them, couldn't stop yelling until I
shoved my cock in her mouth. They'll understand, being cops and all." 

She shivered. "I'm not in any real trouble, am I, Tag?" Perhaps, he
thought, my attempt at gallows humor went a tad too far.

"No, angel. If you didn't end his misery for him, you have nothing to
worry about. Just don't tell the cops a thing. Lawyer up and let him
do the talking for you. Sure, the cops will suspect you at first,
that's only normal, but in time it won't mean crap. Of course, I'd
appreciate your not mentioning our little romp in the hay to anyone,
including the mouthpiece. OK?" He felt her nod.

They showered together, made more drinks, and Tag called the police.
All they had left to do now was get quickly dressed and wait. Tag
broke the silence.

"Did you kill him, Greta? Because if you did, you'll probably get
caught and I won't be able to do a thing to help you."

"No, Tag, I didn't, but thanks for asking. Jake had a thousand people
who had more reasons to want him gone that I have. Eventually, we'll
probably learn who really did it, but for now, fuck Jake! And tell me
the truth, Tag, were you as turned on as I was knowing Jake was in the
closet?" She laughed.

"I hate to admit it, but I did. It was sort of like one of those
threesomes in which the husband only wants to watch and be cuckolded
at the same time. Only this time, the guy wasn't paying too much
attention! Aside from the winks." They both laughed.

Then Greta thought of something deliriously silly. "Tag, what if the
winks Jake gave to us weren't just a trick of the light? Huh?" She
grinned at him and took a sip.

Tag winked at her. "We can only hope!" She laughed, long and hearty.

Well, the cops came, the body was removed, and before you could say
cuckolded winking hubby, Tag was back in his office. With a horny, all
business-like Ms. Lucy Fern. She locked the door behind him and, well,
you know, they did the nasty. Twice.

A few days later, Tag read in the papers that the murder of Jake Stern
had been solved. The killer was an amateur named Wilson Q. Wilson, one
of Jake's many accountants. Q? Another Quiff? He would have shared it
with Lucy, but it was her day off.

Seems the guy was pilfering from the company and Jake had gotten the
goods on him and was planning on turning him in. All legal like, a
first for Jake, probably. Well, the poor schmo, facing ruin both
socially and financially, not to mention a long jail term, had taken
what he thought was an easy out. Might have been except for one big
mistake.

The dope had shot Jake with the dope's own gun. And then, stupidly to
be sure, had hidden it in the Stern's own laundry basket! As if cops
were not allowed to seach people's dirty laundry, it being off limits
and all.

Tag looked down at his desk calendar. He was free for the next four
hours. Let's see, he thought, who shall it be for a nice fuckfest?
Lucy? Mergie? Greta? Wanda? Or should he troll The Den for some
strange? Or maybe give Cherry, the flower lady a ring? And Brenda,
Lucy's roomie. Christ, he thought, so many women, so little time! 

He smiled as he reached for the phone. One of those ladies was in for
a rousing good time today, if she was up for it. She answered on the
second ring.

"Hi, Baby, it's Tag. You free for some sexy shenanigans?" She said she
was . . . 

The End.