Cougar

by Lily Harlem

  Dirty Gertie

  Heather Towne

  The house slept in the bright afternoon sunshine, high up in the Hollywood Hills. A hacienda-style, rambling ranch layout in stuccoed yellow and red. Home of Dix Akers, iron-haired, iron-jawed star of a hundred and one oaters from yesteryear. And his young firecracker of a wife, Felecia.

  Dix was out on location in Gower Gulch, filming a Grade C six-reeler on the backlot of a poverty row studio. He’d ridden tall in the saddle back in the 20s and 30s, but time and changing tastes had caught up with the ol’ cowpoke. Westerns weren’t so popular after the war, Dix and his opinionated isolationist sentiments even less so. But he’d still managed to corral himself a new filly down Mexico way and, now that he was back north of the border, he was worried that the feisty young señora was cheating on him.

  I slumped further down in the front seat of my baby-blue ’42 Packard and patted my personal secretary, Malcolm, on the head. The eager young man with the mop of curly black hair and tight, toned, ivory body was down on his knees on the floorboards of the car, beneath the big white tilted-up steering wheel, licking my pussy as hard and as fast as he could. Superbly stroking this forty-five-year-old gal’s slit and ego at the same time.

  ‘Whoa, cowboy,’ I cautioned the exuberant twenty-two-year-old, pulling up on his curls a tad. ‘We could be here all afternoon, you know.’

  He reined in his delightfully wet and wide tongue and looked up at me, his blue eyes sparkling, red lips glistening. ‘You’re the boss,’ he agreed. He loosened his grip on my stockinged thighs and painted my pussy with long, slow, languorous strokes.

  I groaned and tilted my dyed-blonde head back. Business was good in the PI racket after the Big One, pleasure even better.

  I’d been in the war myself, overseas, pulling frontline nursing duty in Europe. And now, back in La-La Land, like most returning men and women flooding the sunshiny desert basin, I was endowed with an overpowering urge to make love, not wage anymore war. I was older than most, but still blessed with a curvy, busty body and audacious appetite and personality that attracted the young hungs like flies to a honeypot. I didn’t intend on drying up anytime soon.

  My pussy at the moment was a volatile mixture of Malcolm’s warm saliva and my own hot juices. The young man had been working for me for a year, working my breasts and pussy over for half of that time. I’d taken in his hard cock on many a hard case. But with this kind of public stakeout, we had to content ourselves with a good old-fashioned pussy eat-out.

  Malcolm pulled his petulant pink licker up in a long, dragging slurp over my bedazzled cunt, and then positioned the flexible tip at the top of my slit. He pulled his hands off my thighs, placed his fingers on my pussy and parted my swollen flaps, exposing my clit. He tickled the throbbing pink button with his tongue-tip. I quivered all over. The young man’s oral skills, like my own experienced dick-tation, were wonderful.

  I dropped the binoculars out of my right hand, clutched my tits with both hands and kneaded the shimmering mounds through my white blouse. ‘That’s the stuff Mama likes, baby,’ I murmured, thrusting my trigger up against his tongue, jamming my breasts together in my bra.

  Sexual fireworks were about to explode the quiet of that sun-seared suburban street, right out there in the front seat of that inconspicuously parked Packard, my clit and myself set to go off on the end of Malcolm’s tantalising tongue – when, suddenly, another car sped into the picture and spoiled the erotic send-off. It was a black Ford coupe. It bounced from kerb to kerb up the street, taking out garbage cans and mailboxes. The clatter caused Malcolm to bob his head up, and we watched the runaway vehicle make a two-wheeled turn into Dix Akers’ driveway and skid to a stop mere inches from the front of the house.

  A man fell out, climbed to his feet. He was short and tanned, with glossy black hair that shone under the hot sun, the wax on his moustache melting. He wore a grey silk shirt and white silk pants, two-toned shoes. Through the spyglasses, I could see that his limpid brown eyes were as glazed as gimlets, his breath no doubt adding even more toxic exhaust to the already polluted atmosphere. I pegged him like a butterfly to a board as Lance Chalmers (aka Luigi Collocini), song-and-dance man, age twenty-eight, status married, notorious love ’em and leave ’em. He staggered up to the big red bat-winged front doors of Dix’s abode and stumbled his way on through.

  Malcolm crawled over to the other side of the floorboards and curled up for a nap. My hotbox would have to wait, the case had just heated up.

  Ten minutes later, we were jarred out of our lethargy by the shattering blasts of gunfire coming from inside the house.

  Malcolm fumbled my pearl-handled .32 out of the glovebox and tossed it at me. I caught it by the butt, thumbed down the safety, smiled at the cutie, spilled out of the car. Just as more gunshots blasted the interior of Dix’s stable. I raced over the spacious yellow front lawn, kicked the doors open with a sensible two-inch heel and jumped inside the hacienda.

  More gunfire, down the wide sawdust-strewn hallway to the right. There was cordite in the air, along with the faint smell of manure. I quickly sidled down the hall with my back to the wall, gun up in the cocked position. Past a watering hole, empty, the lid up on the toilet trough like cowpokes like it. Another shot almost took out my eardrum. So close – right next door.

  Now maybe it wasn’t my business to intervene, to fully throw myself into the case. But trouble was my business, too, and my client’s homestead was under fire. So I curled around the open door like a sidewinder and stuck out my gun and cried, ‘Stop!’

  Felecia and Lance stared at me from the feathered bed of their lovenest. The pair were as naked as day. Lance was stretched out on his back with his head to the foot of the bed. Felecia was on top of the dude, cowgirl-style, silver .38 revolver in her right hand, caramel breast in her left, Lance’s cock holstered in her pussy. There was a pile of shattered glass and splintered picture frames up on the dresser against the wall in front of Felecia, one 8x10 glossy of Dix with a bullethole between his eyes lying on the dun-coloured carpet.

  Felecia had been blasting her husband’s likenesses away with the six-shooter, as she rode hard cock on her lover.

  ‘Who are you?’ she squealed, dropping the gun and her breast. Her big green eyes blazed with unrequited lust, her lush brown body glowing with same. That rod up her pussy hadn’t moved, Lance Chalmers a frozen rope inside her and out.

  ‘Gertrude Flowers,’ I honestly informed the adulterers. ‘Your husband hired me to find out if you were cheating on him.’

  The sprawled-out song-and-dance man sprang to life, grabbed Felecia’s taut humps and tuned her tan nipples back in. ‘You found out,’ he said, grinning. He waggled his moustache from side to side, his compact body undulating beneath Felecia. ‘Want to confirm it for sure?’

  Felecia’s eyes flashed. She licked her plush lips, and nodded.

  I walked closer to the tangled pair, set my gun down on the debris-strewn dresser, my blouse and skirt down on the desert-tinted carpet. In the gumshoe game, sex is where you find it.

  The twosome became a threesome on the wagon-wheel-headboarded bed. Felecia tumbled off Lance’s cock and spun around, mounted his head, splatting her pussy down on his mouth, facing me. ‘You can have the saddle of honour, since you are our guest,’ the lovely chica allowed, pointing at Lance’s gleaming horn. The guy murmured muffled agreement into her pussy.

  For a small man, Lance was erected tall where it counted. That, and his swivelling hips, explained all his success with the ladies on-screen and off. I swung a leg over, picked up Lance’s shooter and stuck it straight into my slot, and sat down on the pussy-faced man. His smooth tan dong glided inside me and almost right out the top of my spinning head.

  Felecia grabbed onto my shoulders with her red lacquered nails, bobbing her pussy on Lance’s mouth at a cantering pace. I bounced in rhythm on Lance’s prick, the man thrusting up into me at the same sensuous speed. Felecia’s pretty young face contorted into a b
ronze mask of wantonness, as she moved faster, rubbed harder. I thought Lance might suffocate, or drown in the obvious juiciness, but his pole briskly pistoning my stretched and sucking pussy told me all was OK; better than OK, in point of fact.

  ‘Fuck her, Lance!’ Felecia hissed, riding the high cuntry. ‘Fuck her cunt!’ She slapped my tits, spurred Lance’s face between her knees.

  I could see the guy’s tongue flash down below, slurping at the moving, mushing target of Felecia’s pussy. His hands shot off her humping butt cheeks and up onto her bounding breasts, mauled the exuberant pair.

  I tilted my head back and moaned, letting my hair stream, my pussy take the wicked impact of cock churning tunnel, moving in unison. The bed creaked. Lance’s muscled thighs smacked against my fleshy butt cheeks. The superheated air crackled with our impassioned moans and groans. This was the Wild West at its very wildest.

  Felecia was the first to go up in smoke.

  She screamed into my open mouth, yanking on my swollen nipples. Her golden-brown body quivered with all-out release on top of Lance’s tongue digging inside her. His neck and chest flooded with her spicy gush.

  ‘Hi-ho’s, away!’ I cried, surging with my own molten, melting orgasm, Lance’s iron poker branding me with ecstasy.

  I vaguely felt his come-gun blaze away inside me, Felecia’s hot flapping tongue all over my face. The Dix Akers case had broken wide open in a stampede of unrestrained joy. Proving again that you just couldn’t keep a horny young man and woman and seasoned PI fenced in.

  * * *

  I dropped Malcolm off at the office. We’d go over the case notes the next morning, in intimate detail. Then I drove over to a bar and grill on Cahuenga, in need of some food and drink to quell an appetite aroused by all my hard, heaving work. I was just coming up on the right turn into the Mussels & Francs parking lot when Max Toller suddenly cut me off with his yellow De Soto, drove me and my flivver into a back alley.

  ‘Sailing that barge under the influence again, Max?’ I demanded to know, slamming out of my ride to confront my professional rival. ‘You need a driver’s licence, not a liquor licence, you know!’

  Toller was a big, slab-faced, slab-bodied punk in his early twenties, with a shock of red hair to match his fiery temperament. He didn’t like ‘dames’ working cases, working period. For his age, he was as unenlightened as a fifteen-watt bulb.

  He steamed out of his banana boat and banged up against me halfway. ‘I don’t like you snatching away business, Flowers!’ he growled, glaring at my groin when he said it. ‘Like that Dix Akers job – that should’ve been my meat!’

  ‘Doubt if you could’ve handled it, sonny,’ I countered, casting an equally contemptuous gaze down at his crotch. ‘It needed a woman’s touch. Or more beef than you could’ve brung to the rodeo.’

  ‘A woman’s place is in the home!’ the guy grated in my face. ‘Looking after her man’s kids! Not using her T&A to take food off a man’s plate!’ He bumped me backwards with his belly.

  ‘Doesn’t look like you’re suffering any, Toller,’ I jawed, thrusting my breasts against his broad chest, bouncing him back a step.

  ‘I’ll give you something to feed on, Flowers!’ He reached for his rod.

  I grabbed his wrist before he could grab his gat, twisted his arm down and around, then up, spinning the big baby in the grey flannel suit. I thumped him against the side of my car in a half-nelson, hissed in his reddened ear, ‘I don’t like to be muscled, Toller!’

  Then I reached down between his legs with my left hand, seizing onto a sexy idea I’d had for awhile. ‘Unless it’s with one particular muscle, that is!’

  His cock swelled in my squeezing hand, to my satisfaction. The beefy young boy was getting the picture. ‘There’s room for both of us in this town, Toller. Room for what you’ve got to offer in my mouth.’

  I’m a lover, not a fighter; either one if duty calls. There was no reason Toller and I couldn’t get along, or get it on. I rubbed my large breasts against his wide back, undulated my pussy against his mounded butt, pumping his flesh-gun full of load. His body relaxed in my grip, all except his cock, which went raging rigid as a man can get and a woman can grasp.

  I spun the lug back around, squatted down on my heels in the alley. Toller’s normally angry mug was downright angelic now, as I deftly unhooked his belt and unbuttoned his pants, drew his dong out into broad daylight. My fingers could barely close around the thick pulsating tool, my palm clasping hard, hand shifting up and down the enormous length. This guy was truly packing. I popped his meaty cap into my mouth, packed it in warmth and wetness with my lips.

  ‘Holy geez!’ the big boy gasped.

  His huge hands closed on my wavy locks, jerked my head forward, anxious for me to smoke more of the peace-pipe. I accepted the challenge in bloated inches, swallowing up almost half of his massively impressive cock. He bucked, banging back against my car.

  I grasped his big, clenched butt cheeks and bobbed my head, sucking on his massive appendage. He didn’t walk softly, but he sure did carry a big stick. It was smooth and clean-cut, pink and pulsing its entire length and width. I sucked quick and tight, deep as I dared, drooling out of the crammed corners of my mouth. Mama liked a raw serving of beef as much as the next hungry cougar.

  Toller screeched, ‘Oh, geez! Geez!’

  His blunt fingernails dug into my scalp, his powerful hips bucking, his powerful cock blasting. The immature stud needed some lessons in control – temper and testes. He coated my throat with hot semen, spurting and spasming madly. I coolly and convulsively gulped like the tried and tested and thrilled cock-tamer I was.

  When Toller finally flopped back against the car, his passion and prick spent like an LA flash flood, I pulled him out of my soaked mouth slow and easy and affectionately slapped his slit with my tongue. ‘We going to get along from now on, Max?’ I asked, cradling the young man’s cock.

  ‘Oh, geez, yes!’ he yelped, putty in my hand.

  I smiled. ‘We’ll still have our occasional “run-ins”, though,’ I promised the hunky hardcase.

  * * *

  It was just past six when I pushed through the doors of the Detmer Beauty Clinic on Sunset. I’d washed down Max Toller’s surrender to common sense and uncommon sex with a couple of dry martinis and one wet, juicy steak, and so was more than strengthened to tackle my second case of the day. This one was special: I’d been hired by the DA’s office to investigate Dr Detmer for possible unethical and illicit morphine prescribing.

  I always like to get in good with the legal boys, and let handsome young Assistant DA Jenkins get good and into my pussy. The debriefing was scheduled for later that night, at his place of work.

  Just as I strolled into the fancy clinic’s well-appointed waiting area, a woman came strutting down the carpeted hallway from in back. She was tall and sleek and chic, with shimmering black hair and eyes, radically arched eyebrows, clad in more fur than an Eskimo. The wraps were mink, the woman under them Evelyn Lansdowne (aka Ewa Lewondowski), cinematic legend and legendary bitch-on-set. She was being escorted by a young, good-looking attending physician in a white smock, with soft brown hair. He was Gladstone Detmer, owner of the fashionable feel-good salon. I recognised his chiselled, cleft-chinned mug from the shot the DA had showed me.

  ‘If you need anything else, anything more, just come back and see me,’ the good doctor promised Evelyn Lansdowne.

  She smiled magnificently and meaningfully at him, squeezed his hand on her arm. Her sculpted nose was back in its proper position, stuck way up in the air, when she sailed past me on a cloud of Eau de Paris.

  ‘You must be Clara Button,’ Dr Detmer said, clasping my one hand in the warm, dry, tanned pair of his own.

  I was dolled up to look like the former silent-screen star who’d developed a career-ending case of ‘mike fright’. ‘Runnin’ wild,’ I responded by way of acknowledgement, tacking a coy smile onto the end.

  Detmer ushered me into an opulent examinati
on room, enquired as to what was bothering me.

  ‘Everything!’ I gasped, gulping a shuddering sob. ‘N-nerves, I guess. I’ve–I’ve been so edgy lately … and in so much pain.’ I hitched up higher on the padded velvet examination table, showing more of my stockinged thighs. ‘You see, I’m planning a … return to the screen.’

  Detmer’s amber eyes beamed good wishes. He placed a smooth hand on my knee, squeezed good intentions. ‘Your fans will be so excited.’

  If they weren’t already dead, I thought to myself. ‘Yes,’ I sighed out loud. ‘But with these nerves, and all this pain …’ I fluttered a hand to my forehead in a theatrical gesture of hysterics.

  ‘Oh, I think I can help you with that. As long as you help me.’ The doctor’s hand slid silkily up my thigh and under my skirt.

  I stared into his eyes, licking my heavilyglossed lips. I’d applied the cosmetics with a trowel, as befitted a faded film star trying to act the ingénue all over again. My hair was curled like Clara’s, my body needing not one iota of padding to pull off the deceit. I gently grasped Detmer’s wrist and guided his naughty, unprofessional hand right in between my legs and onto my pussy. I moaned with intent, hamming just a little.

  Detmer rubbed my bare sex with his talented fingers, expertly finding my clit with his thumb and giving it a good buff.

  ‘Oh, Doctor!’ I panted, shivering for real.

  He laid me back on the examination table. He unbuttoned my blouse and unhooked my skirt, unwrapping me like the latest miracle medical procedure, letting my boobs and pussy loose. Then he bent over and kissed me on the lips, his hands exploring my breasts for symptoms of arousal, finding them at the stiffened tips.

  I grabbed onto his head and mashed my mouth against his, thrust my tongue right inside. He was even less fearful of germs than he was of a malpractice suit. His tongue twisted around mine, pink and strong and slippery, his hands kneading my buzzing breasts, fingers reaching up and rolling my sensitive nipples.

  This dirty doctor took the Hippocratic Oath to a whole new level – not doing harm, doing a whole lot of good – kissing his way down my face and neck to my chest. He piled my pliable tits together and sucked on the nipples, engulfing the straining jutters in wet warmth and sweetly tugging on them one after another. I arched up off the table, into his mouth. He pushed my glistening breast-beads up side by side and flicked his talented tongue across the stuck-out pair both together.