{ASS} New: "Double Cross" by DG [2/9]
diony...@hotmail.com
========================================================
The following piece of fiction contains strong sexual
content and is meant to be read only by adults. If you
are not at least 18 years old, or if you are offended by
this type of material, please do not read any further.
========================================================
"Double Cross"
A Frank Stern Mystery
Š 1999 by DG (diony...@hotmail.com)
Chapter Two
-----------
By the time I got home it was after seven, and I was famished. I
live in Jasmine Heights, in a one-bedroom apartment. It's a nice
building, all brick with a swimming pool in the courtyard, with
sixteen units in all. I live in one of the garden apartments, which
is a polite way of saying the basement. I really can't afford to
live here the way things have been going the past couple years, but I
hate to move now that I've got the darkroom set up.
I made myself a sloppy ham and cheese sandwich and ate it in
front of the computer while I checked my email. Six messages with
words like "Opportunity," "$$$," and "Cash" in the header that I
deleted unread. I get a kick out of the ones hawking bulk email
programs - it's like trying to sell guns by going around shooting
people. A message from Vic asking if anything happened on Sparkle
Beach. I composed a reply, hitting the highlights, and then I went
into my cozy bathroom and took a shower.
The anticipation of developing the pictures of Claire was making
my skin tingle. As I toweled off after the shower, the damp
terrycloth rubbing across my cock sent a shock of pleasure through my
body, and I had an overwhelming urge to jerk off. On the theory that
self-deprivation was good for me, I put on a loose pair of shorts and
a T-shirt, and then I took the roll of film into the darkroom.
I built the darkroom myself, by walling off a corner of the
living room with fiberboard paneling. The hardest part was the
plumbing. I had to break into the living-room wall and tap into the
cold water pipe which heads to the bathroom. The building manager
wasn't too thrilled when he found out, but since I'm already in the
basement I can't flood anyone but myself, and he let it go.
I closed the door behind me, and for a split second before I
turned on the dim red light I was in absolute darkness. The inside
space is about eight feet by six, and most of that is taken up by a
row of sinks, metal shelves for supplies, and a big developing table.
It's kind of cozy in there, with the dim lighting, the burbling flow
of water in the sinks, and the familiar smell of the chemicals. I
often spend hours in there fooling around with negatives, losing track
of the time as I try to get the perfect print. Then I come stumbling
out, disoriented and blinking against the sudden light, like a
submariner surfacing and opening the hatch after a long cruise.
I turned on the little radio to a classic rock station, keeping
the volume low, and got to work. First I quickly make a set of small
working prints, skipping only the frames that were completely out of
focus or misaimed. Then I turned on the light and spent a few minutes
going through them, marking where I would crop and picking out the
best shots for enlargement. Usually when I shoot a roll under such
difficult conditions there will only be a few decent shots, but out of
the twenty-two frames of Claire Ingleford fifteen were of usable
quality. I winnowed that down to eleven by eliminating repeats, and
then turned off the light.
An hour later I had about a dozen good-quality five-by-seven
prints hanging from the drying clips on the outside wall of the
darkroom. I sat on the couch with a beer in my hand and gazed at them
fondly. The little Olympus has a terrific autofocus, and all the
shots were crisp and clear. Claire turning in her chaise with a smile
on her face, one breast exposed. Claire with her back arched and her
hands over her head, her breasts thrust out proudly as she stretched.
A close-up from the side, as she walked by me toward the beach, with
her large nipple outlined against the blue water.
A door slammed on the other side of the courtyard, a sound I had
been unconsciously listening for. I went to the kitchen window and
looked out. Sure enough, the lights had gone on in Gerri's apartment.
Gerri Imbasi is a woman I did a favor for a while back, and we're now
on good terms, if not exactly close friends. I don't think Gerri has
friends. She's a stunning African woman, an immigrant from Liberia.
She's a call girl, and a very expensive one. I could never afford a
date with her at her going rate, but I get a sort of discount service.
I called her up and invited her over, telling her I had some
pictures to show her. Gerri has an improbable voyeuristic streak, and
enjoys my collection almost as much as I do.
She walked into my kitchen a few minutes later without knocking,
dressed casually in white jeans and a tight yellow top. Gerri is six
feet tall, with long, slim legs, a firm round ass, and small high
breasts which are always braless. Her skin is the color of milk
chocolate. I would describe her face as exotic rather than beautiful,
but that's just a matter of taste. She was wearing gold sandals with
two-inch heels, which put her almost eye-to-eye with me.
"Hello Frank." She gave me a cool smile and went over to the
refrigerator and took out a diet coke.
"Busy day?" I asked.
"No, not really. The ad executive took me out to dinner, and
then he got called back to the office before I could earn my money."
Gerri has four or five regular clients. There's the managing
partner, the rock musician, the rich young playboy, and the ad
executive, who is her least favorite. There's also the private dick,
I guess, although I don't really pay enough to be considered a client.
"Lucky you," I said.
"I suppose. So you have some new pictures?"
"Yep. Took them this afternoon on Sparkle Beach."
She walked by me into the living room, and I followed her,
catching a faint whiff of her musky perfume. She went over to the
pictures drying on the darkroom wall and studied them carefully for a
few minutes without comment, her hands on her hips. I fondled myself
discreetly through my shorts as I watched her.
"She's beautiful," she said finally, in her precise, faintly-
accented English. "Very nice breasts. They are real. But she is just
sunbathing, yes? Not very exciting. I can see this every day in the
changing room at the gym."
"Yeah, but I can't."
She raised an eyebrow. "Yes, I see your point. But you sounded
so excited about these pictures..."
"Doesn't she look familiar?" I prodded.
Gerri turned back to the pictures and then her eyes got wide.
"Oh! Of course...this is the one from that TV show - the one who is
always doing mean things to her employees. I would have known, but
she has the sun cream on her nose. She is very well known. What is
her name?"
"Claire Ingleford."
"Yes. OK, Frank, you are right. These are good pictures. You
don't usually get pictures of famous people."
"Right, I don't really do celebrities. They have professional
photographers stalking them, not to mention fans, so they're usually
pretty wary. I'd rather just get regular people doing nasty things,
anyway. But this one fell into my lap."
"It would be nice if she was sucking this other man's cock
instead of just walking around. But the pictures are very good. Nice
and sharp."
She took a sip of her diet coke, and gave me a look of faint
amusement.
I took my hand out of my pocket, cleared my throat, and said "So
how would you like to make twenty dollars the hard way?"
She shook her head. "Such a charming man. Such a way with the
ladies."
I felt myself flush. Gerri always makes it difficult for me.
She knows I'm nervous around her, and I think she's enjoys the
feeling. Or maybe she figures if she doesn't needle me a little, I'd
be bugging her all the time.
"If it's a bad time..."
"No, it's not a bad time. Come over in ten minutes, all right?"
"OK, great."
I knocked on her back door eleven minutes later. Gerri had
changed into cotton shorts, a tank top, and sneakers. She had a small
tattoo on her upper arm, a geometric shape that was barely visible
against her dark skin.
"Going to exercise?" I asked.
"Yes. I am going to ride the bicycle for a while. Make yourself
comfortable, I'll be right with you."
From the inside, it's hard to believe Gerri's apartment is in the
same building as mine. Her kitchen is spotless and shiny, with a
noticeable lack of any sort of cooking equipment. The living and
dining rooms are also neat and clean, not to mention well decorated.
I've never seen the bedroom, but I imagine it's the same way. The
hardwood floors have been recently refinished, and they gleam with
polish. Mine look like a hockey game has been played on them. The
couch and chairs are in matching white leather. African art hangs on
the walls. An incense candle is always burning, giving off some sort
of pleasant scent, sandalwood maybe.
I stood waiting in the living room, watching the muted
television, which was tuned to CNN. Stock quotes flowed along under
an attractive older woman in a business suit. My cock was rigid and
pulsing, but I forced myself not to touch it.
Gerri came back in and spread a large towel on the couch. I took
off my shoes and socks, and then slowly took off my shirt and then my
shorts. It isn't necessary that I be completely naked, but I consider
it part of the experience. There is something faintly humiliating but
very erotic about being naked in the presence of a fully dressed woman
who is going to stay that way.
I lay down on the couch and watched Gerri as she moved a small
rug next to the couch and then kneeled on it.
"You have a nice cock, Frank. It has a very nice shape."
"Thanks," I said, looking down at my organ. It's a little
longer and a little thinner than average, and very straight. At the
moment the head was dark red and swollen, and a drop of clear liquid
was beaded at the tip.
Gerri took a clear bottle of oil and poured a thin stream into
her hand. Then she poured some directly onto my cock and balls, and
the faint tickle of it made me suck in my breath and clench my
stomach. She worked the oil in gently with her long fingers, spending
a long time on my balls before finally taking my shaft in her hand.
She stroked the shaft, squeezing it firmly and moving it around
in slow circles, but avoiding the head. She could make me come in
about three seconds by just rubbing the head of my cock, but she
didn't.
I looked up at her, and felt an overwhelming surge of desire. I
wanted to do unspeakably nasty things to her, to lick every crevice of
her body. Somehow I remained still.
"Are you thinking about Claire Ingleford?" She had moved up over
me and was slowly pulling my slippery cock upward through her fists,
one fist at a time, like she was pulling weeds out of a garden.
"No. Well, yes." I was now.
"She has lovely breasts."
"Her nipples are incredible," I said. "I'd love to suck on them,
bite them."
"Hmm, I bet you would. I might even enjoy that too." Gerri is
mildly bisexual. She occasionally participates in threesomes with
very rich, very lucky men who like their women two at a time. God, I
wish I was rich.
She smiled as if she knew what I was thinking. "All right...I
want you to close your eyes."
I complied.
"Claire Ingleford is kneeling between your legs, leaning forward
with her breasts hanging on either side of your cock." Gerri's voice
was smooth and lilting in my ear. She was massaging my cock between
the palms of her hands, and it did feel a little like breasts.
"She pushes her breasts together around your cock, and you start
sliding in and out of her cleavage."
I was getting close now. She was rubbing and squeezing the head
of my cock, and the semen was starting to move north. I thought about
the way Claire's breasts had swung from side to side as she leaned
over in the ocean, and a little groan escaped me.
"Keep going," I muttered. "Don't stop."
"All right, Frank," she said solicitously. "Gerri is not a
tease."
She suddenly started to stroke me full-bore, her hand pumping up
and down rapidly with a lighter pressure. I let out a long moan and
then came like a geyser, bucking my hips up into the air. When it was
finally over, I lay there panting, my body a boneless mass of jello.
I felt quite literally drained, as if my balls had pumped themselves
dry. I've slept with a lot of women in a lot of ways (usually paying
for it, in case you think I'm bragging), and a hand job from Gerri is
the only thing that leaves me this way.
Gerri went to the kitchen and returned with a warm washcloth.
She cleaned me gently and thoroughly, removing all the semen and oil.
"Thank you," I said, when she was done. "You're incredible. If
you can do that with your hands, it's scary to think what you can do
with your mouth and your pussy."
She shrugged. "It is a skill, like playing the piano, or
juggling. And also you have to understand the human nature a little.
To know what will work at the certain moment, you know?"
"I guess. Don't ruin it for me by getting all clinical. It
would be like finding out how the magician saws the lady in half."
I put my clothes on, expecting to leave. Gerri usually
disappeared at this point, as if afraid I might want to cuddle or
something. But today she sat next to me on the couch and watched me
thoughtfully as I put on my shoes.
"Frank, how old are you?"
"Thirty-four. Why?"
"Don't you think you should have a relationship? Have a girl
friend, I mean?"
"Wait, I thought you were my girlfriend."
"Very funny. You could have a girlfriend, Frank. You are tall
and you have a nice face. It would be better if you lifted weights,
of course, but still..."
This sudden maternal interest in my personal life was way out of
character. "Gerri, what exactly are you getting at?"
She shrugged and crossed her long slim legs. "You and I, we are
all alone. Sometimes it is nice, sometimes not so nice, right?"
"Aha."
"What do you mean, aha?"
"I mean, aha, this isn't about me, it's about you."
She looked embarrassed. "OK, yes, it is about me. Today one of
my clients asked me to marry him."
"Really? Which one, the managing partner?" I knew he was her
favorite.
"Yes. He even bought me a diamond ring, but I didn't take it. I
told him I would think about it."
"Do you love him?"
"Do I love him?" She smiled warily, as if afraid I was joking.
"No. I am not big for love. But he is a nice man, and he likes me a
lot. And he is very rich."
"Sounds like a match made in heaven," I said, standing up.
"Gerri, I'm the last person in the world who should be giving
relationship advice. But I think it would be very weird getting
married to a guy who has been paying you thousands of dollars to tie
him up and spank him for the past two years."
She walked me to the back door. "Yes, that is what I think too.
Also, he has a wife and children."
"That's another factor to consider."
* This story is a copyrighted work. Reposting or archiving this story
requires the written permission of the author.*
Comments are welcome.
DG
diony...@hotmail.com
DG's Story Page: http://baird.pair.com/dg.htm
Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/
Share what you know. Learn what you don't.