She slipped out from under me and had a naughty-child look as she stood there and wriggled out of the skin-tight slacks and revealed a healthy reddish pubic patch and when she half-turned to toss the slacks away, I saw how incredible and full her ass was, dimples so deep you could drink champagne out of them. If you had champagne.
Then she was on her knees and unbuttoning my pants and she gave the porno girls a real run for the money, sucking the tip, then sliding her mouth down, then up and down and licking around and making me wonder what the fuck that dipshit husband of hers was thinking. I almost came in her mouth, but she knew just when to stop and she smiled up at me, those eyes incredibly blue, and got to her feet and walked to the bed, hip-swaying till I was drunk with it, and it was only about six steps.
She grabbed a pillow out from under the covers and put it under her hips and lifted herself to me and opened herself like a pink flower in a red bush, eyes glistening, pussy too, and she asked, “I’m not so bad, am I? Not so bad.”
“No,” I said. “Just enough.”
The rest you probably read in Penthouse Forum.
SEVEN
We finished the four beers, though Dorrie had three of them, and had another enthusiastic fuck, this time on the couch with the curvy gal sitting on my lap facing me, and she was pretty drunk at that point and her face wasn’t looking so hot, no make-up and kind of saggy, but her body held up fine and anyway I hadn’t been laid in a couple months.
She gathered her clothes and padded into the bathroom to freshen up. I heard the shower going and thought about joining her, but my dick was as red as a radish and I thought the better part of valor was just to get my own clothes on and call myself lucky.
Her purse had been in there, so when she emerged she was fairly put together, and I suggested we go downstairs for a nightcap. I had an ulterior motive, which was to make sure she didn’t spend the night in my room-I needed more freedom than that-and I was pleased when she accepted my invitation.
She had a Vodka Collins and I had a gimlet while we sat in a booth and played PI and client. The “band”-a guy with a guitar and a gal with a keyboard doing horrific soft rock with drum-machine backing-was at least not very loud. The guitarist was perched on a stool and wore a velour jumpsuit and pink shirt; he smiled and sang back-up. The girl, in a gypsy-pattern peasant dress and seated behind her keyboard, did the lead vocals in a whispery folky voice just perfect for “Which Way You Goin’, Billy?” Perfect in the sense that “Which Way You Goin’, Billy?” would make great background music for driving off a bridge.
The tiny dance floor, however, was packed with couples in upright copulation mode, and they soaked up some of the sound, at least.
Dorrie was sucking on the orange slice from her Tom Collins glass. If I hadn’t just been fucked royal, twice, that might have been provocative.
I sipped my gimlet. “I’ll send you the photos.”
She shook the reddish tower of curls. “No. I want to see them. I want you to talk me through them.”
“Huh?”
“Tell what else you saw, you know, in relation to the photos.”
I frowned. “I really think it would be better if you went back to Connecticut and let me send you the photos and report to you over the-”
“I want to see those photos.” She stretched out a palm, like a child demanding candy. “I want to see them… right here.”
I thought about it. “Okay, that’s not a problem. They’ll be developed by noon tomorrow. We can meet in the coffee shop for lunch, and then you can check out and go home.”
The blue eyes, though a little bleary, tightened and grew hard. “No. I want to see that bastard. I want to rub the evidence in his goddamn face.”
“Not such a good idea. Listen, I’m experienced at this, or anyway Mr. Koenig is. I can tell you, with absolute certainty, that having contact with your husband, harassing him and so on, will only hurt your cause in court.”
Her chin crinkled-she wasn’t was about to cry or anything, this was more like a pout, and not as fetching as ones she’d given me earlier, back when she was stripping for me.
“If you want simple revenge,” I said, “you could throw the photos in his face, kick him in the nuts, do whatever you like. But if you hired our agency because you want to build a divorce case against this cheater, then let me do the job I’m being paid for. And as delightful as spending time with you is, you need to get out of my way.”
She frowned. “You’re not finished with the job?”
I shook my head. “I may not be. I haven’t seen the developed photos yet. I took some through the window catching your husband in flagrante delicto. ”
“That’s French for fucking some whore, right?”
“More or less. But I’m frankly not as good with a camera as Mr. Koenig, and it was at night, and I didn’t have a flash, going through hazy curtains-we need to see what I got. I may have to go back for more.”
“And I’m…I’m in your way.”
The couple on stage was doing a version of “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head.” Try to imagine how wretched it was. Nice try, but no.
“Iowa City is a small town,” I said. “If your husband even sees you around here, you may blow it for me. Please let me do my job.”
That was a genuine plea: please let me do my job.
“Okay,” she said, and shrugged helplessly. “Listen, I, uh…I’m going up to my own room to spend the night. That doesn’t offend you or anything?”
“No.”
“It’s just…I’ve kind of gotten used to sleeping alone.”
“Fine.”
“You’re not hurt?”
I gave her my best smile. “No. I had a wonderful time. This is a night I’ll never forget.”
Her smile was rumpled, but she really was very pretty. Not that blank, advertisement pretty I’d seen earlier, but a woman with lovely features and an intelligence that the beers and the vodka hadn’t completely diminished.
She asked, “Really? Even though I have a few miles on me?”
“I’d be glad to help you rack up a few more, any time.”
That made her laugh a little, and she slid out of the booth and so did I. The duo was slaughtering “Fire and Rain.” Really should be a law.
I walked her to the elevators and up to her room. She gave me a nice kiss, soft and sweet, and unlocked her door and hip-swayed in, at least a little drunk.
Back in my room, I collected the nine millimeter and stuffed it in my waistband. This goddamn job was getting out of hand. From what I’d overheard, Annette would have gone over to the prof’s around six this evening. If she did not stay the night, I might be able to get this turkey shot.
So within an hour, I was back at my window in the split-level, with the only change the addition of the little portable TV, its rabbit-ears adjusted to bring in Johnny Carson as best as possible. I kept the volume pretty low. The show had just started and Johnny and Ed and Doc were just fooling around, no guests yet.
Surprisingly, I was fairly alert. I’d slept most of the afternoon, starting when I got back from lunch at Bushnell’s Turtle up till my phone call to Broker, so I was ready to put in a night shift. Annette’s white Corvette was at the curb, meaning she was still in there, getting tutored in one way or another.
Maybe fifteen minutes later, while Johnny Carson was interviewing Charles Nelson Reilly, I thought for a second I’d fallen asleep and was dreaming, and not in a good way. A car had just pulled up behind the Corvette, a Plymouth Barracuda with a rental sticker in the back window. I hadn’t seen this vehicle, among the several thousand that seemed to have shown up at the cobblestone cottage, but I sure knew the driver who got out and strode up the sidewalk: Dorrie Byron herself, the lovely woman who had so recently fucked my dick raw.
Hadn’t she had enough fun for one night?
She was dressed as before, the orange of her toreador pants flashing under a white fur coat, possibly a mink, meaning she’d already got at least some money out of the prof. My mouth had dropped and it was all I could do not to yell out the window at her, What the hell do you think you’re doing, lady?