by Jean Roberta
“Talk to me, baby!” I groaned, clutching her silky, yellow hair, urging her on.
She gobbled down more and more of my meat, till she had a good three-fourths of little big Jim lodged in her talented mouth and throat. Then she began moving her head back and forth in a rhythm as old as original sin, blowing me like she was Divine Brown and I Hugh Grant. Her puffy lips slid to and fro on my pulsating shaft, over and over, one of her hands gripping and probing my ass, the other juggling my balls.
I’m an impatient knob at the best of times, and I was soon all-too-ready to blow my top. So I yanked my dripping dong out of Brinn’s mouth and growled, “How ‘bout that tit-fuck?
She smiled up at me, hefted her massive mams, and I ploughed my greasy pole in between them. I covered her hands with my hands, shoved her heated hooters over top of my raging cock, started sliding my rock-hard member in and out of her awesome tit-tunnel.
“Fuck my tits!” she hollered again, spitting down at my dick, into her golden cleavage.
I churned my hips like a casting couch director, urgently tit-fucking the showstopper of a gal, and she stuck out her tongue, providing a warm, wet cushion for my peek-a-booing cocktop. Then I bleated like an agent come contract renewal and blasted white-hot jizz onto Brinn’s heaving chest, into her open mouth, all over her magnificent mounds.
“You’ll find the tape and my toys?” she asked rhetorically, milking my spent dick with her hand, licking a last pearl from my slit.
“Consider them found,” I grunted, holstering my empty weapon.
I made some calls to the boys in the boing-boing business. The question was simple: anyone approach you about marketing a sex tape starring Brinn Stones? Brinn and I both knew that even if she actually paid off her illicit filmographer, he was still likely to stiff her by distributing a copy of the dirty tape. That’s how blackmailers work, after all, why they top the charts along with politicians and paedophiles on most everyone’s billboard of scumbags.
Initially, I got nothing more than confirmation that a buzz was definitely building about Brinn’s alleged blue movie, but then I crossed wires with Hector Gonzalez, and got so much more. “How’s the porn business, compadre – up and down?” I joked into the blower.
“This your one call from the joint?” Hector responded.
Gonzalez owned a string of adult video and sex toy stores in the rougher ‘hoods. I told him what I was looking for, and he said, ‘join the crowd’. “No one’s tried to peddle you a homemade sex tape lately, huh?” I mused.
“I didn’t say that, bro. I’ve bought four upskirt and three women’s washroom spy cam flicks in the last two days alone,” he boasted. Hector considered himself the Long John Silver of pirated porn. “But I haven’t been offered any Brinn Stones epic, muchacho.”
I frowned, fingered the next name on my list. “Okay, thanks anyway. Don’t take any wooden buttplugs, eh.”
“Yeah … hey, funny you mention that. Some guy was just trying to sell me a shitload of sex toys not half-an-hour ago. Can you believe it, bro – used sex toys!”
I bolted upright. “Know him?”
“Nope. But he’s still here – at my store on Figueroa. The cashier just gave him enough quarters to choke a chicken – for the video booths in back.”
* * *
I gunned it over to Hector’s garbage bag-curtained jerk joint on Figueroa like a bat into hell. And after feeding my friend a pair of twenties, he finally pulled out a zebra-striped, double-headed dong that he’d only recently purchased for repackaging and resale. He pointed the dildo-built-for-two at the rear of his store, where the video booths were located. I hefted the psychedelic pussy-pleaser, mentally ticking it off the voluminous list of missing pleasure tools Brinn had given me. Then I ambled to the back of the store, down a dimly-lit, booth-flanked, grunting and groaning corridor where men were getting their jollies off, free Kleenex provided.
A quick peek over the tops of the booths, and I soon spotted the red, peeling, bald head I was looking for. I tossed the eighteen-inch twat-snake over the wall and it landed in Baldy’s unzipped lap. He took one gander at the funky-coloured man-substitute and jumped up and shot out of the booth. I caught him by the collar, used his sunburned head to lever the emergency exit door open.
“Where’d you get the hardware, cueball?” I barked, slamming him against the cement wall of Hector’s sex-market.
“I don’t know nuthin’!” he squealed, squinting up at me, the glaring LA sun roasting his red-rimmed eyes. His stubby body was clothed in a phlegm-stained ‘Free Tommy Chong’ T-shirt and a pair of greasy, black jeans.
“Normally, I’d buy that,” I said. “But the poon-pump you been peddlin’ tells me you know where the Brinn Stones’ sex tape is hiding. And I want it!”
He polluted the air with pleas of innocence for a short while longer, till a well-placed right with a cinder-block shoulder behind it sent him reeling into a row of garbage cans. From there, it took only a couple of size-twelves to the ribs to get him singing like an American Idol.
His name was Richard Waud, a sometime cinematographer and full-time hustler. His last gig had seen him use his stolen digital camcorder to record a clit-to-clit tango between actress-wannabe Sheila Storm and actress-wanna-eat Brinn Stones. He claimed it was my client’s idea – a sordid attempt to cash in on her fast-fading screen cachet, maybe even resuscitate her career somewhat, by creating a buzz about her bare-assed shenanigans and then selling the sex file for a hefty premium on the Internet. The way Waud spewed it, Brinn was desperate and destitute, and for a cut of the proceeds, he was hired to exercise his skills behind the camera and in front of the computer, play the role of Brinn’s secret agent.
It was a dirty little yarn, complete with matching double-crosses – Waud’s confessed plan to sell Brinn’s toys and tape for his benefit alone, and Brinn’s siccing a dick on Waud to get the tape back all for herself – and I mulled it over like bread dough as Waud and I walked the short distance to his dingy apartment. Once there, he unlocked a tickle trunk jam-packed with enough sex toys to render men obsolete, plucked out a camcorder cassette labelled ‘BS’. He plugged it into his PC, and the screen lit up with the eye and zipper-popping ‘Brinn Loves Sheila’ story. The plot was thin, the dialogue scanty, but the character development was triple-X, double-D dimensional.
I confiscated the cassette and the toys, smashed the computer and the camcorder, leaving Waud to pick up the pieces of his shattered life.
I drove back to the office, pulled up a chair and bottle, and pondered the case developments. I soon decided the best course of action was some late-night surveillance, see if I couldn’t locate the truth somewhere in the shadows.
So, come eleven p.m., I motored on over to Brinn Stones’ palatial estate on Sunset. I crossed a broken glass welcome mat atop a perimeter security fence, then made like a F117, landing in some shrubbery alongside a boob-shaped swimming pool. And even before I could do a window check, I ogled the answers to a lot of my questions: my client and the equally chesty Sheila Storm dashing out of the mansion in their all-together and diving into the swimming pool.
My eyes strained along with my dick as I watched the buxom duo, who were obviously far from strangers, frolic about in the twinkling, lamp-lit water. The breasty girls met up in the centre of the pool, and Brinn grabbed Sheila in her arms and laid a tongue-lashing on the redhead’s gaping mouth. Sheila returned her boob-buddy’s wet-hot fire, the two babes swapping spit and swiping tongue like it was second nature. It looked very much like Waud had been puking the truth, unless Brinn had actually been too wasted to realise she and her playmate had been filmed.
Brinn splashed over to the side of the pool, hoisted herself up, and plopped down on the edge of the swim tank, her legs dangling in the water. She gestured at Sheila, and the flame-haired girl swum over, in between Brinn’s smooth, sun-burnished legs, dove tongue-first into her lover’s sodden pussy.
“Yes! Eat me, Sheila!” Brinn howled at the moon,
wrapping her hands and legs around Sheila’s head.
Sheila gripped the juggsy blonde’s thighs and really went to town on her pussy, digging her tongue in deep, rubbing the belle of Hollywood Boulevard’s clit with her thumb, reaching her other hand up to squeeze and tease Brinn’s breasts, tweak and twirl her protruding nipples. Brinn moaned with pleasure, her hand grasping Sheila’s hand on her splayed titties, pulling it up to her mouth to anxiously suck on the slender fingers, as Shelia earnestly licked her slit.
Brinn finally pushed Sheila back, and then helped her out of the pool, allowing me to eyefuck the finest heart-shaped ass I’d ever seen. The two slippery, top-heavy ladies bounded over to a giant air mattress. Brinn pushed Sheila down on top of it, then climbed aboard herself. Brinn positioned Sheila’s pole dancer’s legs, and her own lush body, such that her shaved snatch met Sheila’s trimmed, ginger bush in a love embrace. The naughty film star then started pumping her hips, lustily grinding her pussy into Sheila’s pussy.
“Fuck me, Brinn!” Sheila screamed, staring wildly up at her lover’s sex-contorted face.
I eagerly surveyed Brinn’s plump, undulating ass, her flexing cheeks, Sheila’s busy hands gripping and groping Brinn’s round chest-mounds. Hard-on cases like these were as rare as silicon-free San Fernando Valley movie sets, and I almost burst my zipper with pride at a job very well done when Brinn collapsed on top of Sheila, savagely kissed and frenched the ultra-endowed redhead, her hips still churning up a storm. The busty babes were glistening tit-to-tit, damp, pointed nipples rubbing against damp, pointed nipples, Brinn relentlessly pounding Sheila’s poon with her poon, their tongues thrashing together.
“God almighty!” Brinn exploded, her body jerking violently as she pussy-frictioned herself to orgasm.
Sheila wasn’t far behind, the voluptuous fuck-doll wailing with joy, digging her fingers into Brinn’s trembling butt cheeks, her body jolted repeatedly by girl-inspired ecstasy. Both wicked women’s mountainous jugs jounced around like they were electrically charged, till Brinn finally tumbled off of Sheila and onto her back, wasted.
I exited my peep position at that point and strolled up to the nude, lewd mattress-thumpers, tossed the zebra-striped dildo down onto Sheila’s slick bumpers. “Anyone for round two?” I asked, smiling back at the shocked look on Brinn’s face.
After sending her fuck-bunny home, and after some half-hearted denials, Brinn finally admitted her treachery. “Hype sells,” she stated succinctly, like any Hollywood mogul with moss where morals once grew. She stood in the middle of her spacious, avant-garde-appointed living room, her built-for-sex body swaddled in a bathrobe. “The sex tape blackmail story, the leaks to the Tabloids – that was all about creating excitement, to maximise box office receipts.”
I stared at the droll doll’s unrepentant expression. Her face, sans make-up, looked washed-out and plain. I said, “So you produced the sex film willingly, with your girlfriend Sheila as co-star and your movie lot acquaintance Waud as cameraman? Knowing full well that you were going to stiff Dick out of his promised take of the gross by sending a big, mean PI after him, or feeding him to the wolves if something went wrong?”
“Richard would’ve double-crossed me,” Brinn replied, shrugging her shoulders. “He stole my sex toys … and was already selling them, wasn’t he? Show biz is a dog-eat-dog business, Jim. And I intend to make millions off this,” she held up the cassette I’d given her, “so I can get out.”
I believed that like I believed reality shows were real. “I could go to the cops, or the press,” I muttered.
“You wouldn’t break client confidentiality, would you, Jim? You hardboiled PIs live by a code, I thought? Not to mention the fact that your licensing board might not look favourably on you accepting sex in-lieu of payment.” She deftly opened the robe, let it slide off her buff, bare shoulders, fluttered fingers across her swelling, brown nipples. “And speaking of which … I’m willing to give you a bonus for all your hard work, Jim – just so there’s no hard feelings.”
I gazed at Brinn’s gargantuan, golden orbs, as Daedalus once gazed at the sun, and it wasn’t my feelings that got hard. My own private dick compelled me to accept her offer.
Brinn Stones mentioned something about PIs living by a code, and she was right. And part of that code dictates that you don’t let your client screw you around, hire you under false pretences to do their dirty work. So, before Brinn could sell any shares in her girl-girl goldmine, I sent the copy I’d downloaded onto my laptop to every adult chatroom, bulletin board, and file-sharing site I could Google, thus devaluing her sexy product by about 99.9%. Call it payback, call it a public service to hard-working, hand-cranking horndogs everywhere. All I know is that Brinn still ended up getting a chunk of her career back from the resultant publicity, and I got all of my self-respect.
Pretty Young Things
by Cathryn Cooper
The crowd from London duly arrived and, once dinner was over, glasses clinked and the gramophone was belting out some pretty lively music. It was 1927 and they were young, vigorous and out for some fun.
Drink flowed and dancing feet and wandering hands became more energetic as the evening went on.
Carew was content to drink too much, dance too much, and let providence take its sexual course. But, as at all parties, there is always that point and always that person that suggests a different distraction.
It was a ginger-haired, fresh faced young man named ‘Polo’ Gibbons who suggested having a car race and Carew, badly in need of diversion, seconded his suggestion.
‘Ten pounds bet!’ exclaimed Polo as he slammed two gleaming white five-pound notes on the table.
‘Seconded!’ cried someone else, and did the same.
Other bets followed among a chorus of enthusiasm from male and female guests alike.
‘You are a brave man indeed,’ Carew said. ‘Seeing as your forte is to have a horse between your legs and to be hitting a ball from one end of a field to another.’
There was immediate laughter when Polo commented that horses were not the only thing he had between his legs.
‘Enough of your boasting, Polo,’ Carew went on once the laughter had died down. ‘If you insist on racing then a-racing we will go. We will race out to the abbey ruins and have a midnight supper there. It will most definitely make a change. Things are getting a bit humdrum here.’
Saying that, he reached out and hit the needle arm from off the same old record. ‘If I hear that bloody ‘Black Bottom Rag’ one more time, I shall kick that bloody gramophone all round the bloody room!’
Carew, who had already drunk more than his fair share, swigged back another large glass of brandy. He tottered a bit as he reached for his motoring things from the ever-present Imran, his faithful servant.
As he pulled on his gloves and slapped his goggles onto his head, he ordered the man to prepare a hamper and more drink and bring it out in the Bentley to the old ruins. He would take the Bugatti which was red and seated only two, but was faster than any car to be driven by his contemporaries.
The male guests dashed for their greatcoats and goggles, the women for their close-fitting hats and their silky summer coats.
Carew would usually have dallied over who he invited to share his car with him, taking glorious delight in the way each woman vied for his attention. As it was, tonight was different.
Surprisingly, it was Suzanne he invited. Suzanne was always there for the plucking – or suchlike. Normally, he would have gone for a girl he had not had sexually, but his brain was befuddled by too many glasses swigged down too quickly.
‘Tallyho,’ Carew shouted as he let go the handbrake and sped off down to the main gate.
Other engines roared into life behind and skits of dust wafted upwards to the lines of beech trees that bordered the road.
The moon hung low and the sky was bright. The road was practically empty except for the brace of cars spewing from the gates of Thompson Towers, Carew’s ancestral home.
Winding and steep, the road they travelled followed the line of the river. As they cornered and the tyres screamed, they dropped down that little bit more. Now and again, a roadside rabbit would run to safety, its eyes glinting like chips of amber in the glare of the headlights.
Surrounded on all sides by thickly forested hills, the road snaked to the valley floor.
Down in the valley, and near the river, the ruins of the abbey pointed darkly at the sky.
All the way, Suzanne had clung to Carew’s arm. Her closeness unnerved him. With sober clarity, he recalled the day he had seen her being rogered by his head groom. But it wasn’t so much what she had been doing that occupied his mind. Despite the amount of drink he had consumed, his cock hardened in his pants.
‘This is wonderfully spooky, darling,’ cooed the over attentive Suzanne as they pulled up before the crumbling stones. ‘Do you think it’s haunted, Carew darling?’
‘No, you stupid bitch. The only spirits here tonight are the ones we’ve brought with us.’
With a dumb look on her painted face, Suzanne stared at him. ‘You what?’
‘Spirits,’ he said, taking his flask from his coat pocket. He toasted her health and drank half its contents.
His head reeled, so he closed his eyes, then he threw back his head and opened them again. The skeleton of the abbey filled his eyes. Perhaps she was right, he thought. Perhaps it was haunted.
Gaunt and glassless windows of what had been the nave framed a bright moon that seemed to hover above the blackness of the hills.
As other cars swerved to a halt on either side of them, he felt Suzanne’s fingers run down over his shirt to the front of his trousers. He groaned, appreciative that her touch had momentarily dispersed his thoughts.