Harold Allwood

By the time Stroker got back to the city, it was already dark. Looking at his watch, he figured that if he hurried, he could reach Westman's Photographic Services before it closed. Westman had on-site film developing facilities, so he could get prints of what he had in his camera by mid-morning tomorrow. And... Westman's was discrete. After dropping off the roll of film to Wilbur, the nerdy clerk that Stroker usually dealt with, the P.I. headed back to his office.

Upon reaching the second story landing of the well-trodden stairs, Stroker spotted a man sitting on the wooden bench between the P.I.'s office and the C.P.A.'s office next to Stroker.

"Mister Stroker?" the man asked as he arose, clutching his fedora nervously between both hands. Stroker nod yes and unlocked his office door, holding it open for the other man to follow. "My name is Allwood. Harold Allwood. I... I am looking to... to hire a Private Investigator."

"I figured as much when I saw you sitting outside. People rare seek out an Accountant at this time of night," Stroker flashed a lop-sided grin. "Sit down, Mister Allwood," he gestured towards the two straight-back armless wooden chairs facing his rather beat-up desk. "And tell me what I can do for you?"

"Well... It is a little embarrassing," Allwood replied as he perched himself on the edge of the chair.

"No need to be embarrassed," the P.I. said as he lowered himself into the somewhat ragged executive chair on his side of the desk. Opening the bottom left-hand drawer, he continued, "I can assure you that I have heard it all before."

Extracting a bottle of Bourbon and two short rock glasses, he asked, "Drink?"

The slender man shook his head. If Stroker had to guess he would place him in his mid-to-late thirties. The man's hair was combed straight back, parted on the side, and with a receding hair-line. Although he was not wearing spectacles, Stroker could nonetheless see the indentations on either side of the bridge of his nose indicating that he did. There were deep lines on either side of his thin lips and he had a weak chin. The paleness of his skin, almost pallid, hinted at indoor work.

"It's... it's about my wife," Allwood began, his bird-like fingers clutching and unclutching the brim of his hat resting on his lap.

"It usual is," Stroker answered, belting back half of the four-fingers of hooch in his glass.

Allwood grimaced at the remark but continued on explaining his problem. "Evelyn... That's my wife, Evelyn... has, uh, disappeared."

"Has she been gone for more than twenty-four hours?" Stroker asked. "Cause if she has, you can file a missing person report with the police. Be alot cheaper than me and they have more resources."

Clearing his throat, the potential client elaborated. "Not exactly disappeared... she has... uh..."

"Left you?" Stroker finished for Allwood. When the man again nodded, Stroker pulled open the bottom drawer on the right side of his desk and pulled out a printed form. "My fee is thirty-five dollars a day plus expenses," he slid the paper across the desk towards Allwood. "Three days minimum. Just fill out this standard retainer form and then we can cover some initial questions."

***** ***** *****

By the time the initial questions were completed, thirty minutes had elapsed. Once his new client had, Stroker filed away the agreement form, turned out the lights of his office, and departed the building for the drinking joint across the street, Callahan's Bar. Callahan's was the typical neighborhood bar -- for a run-down neighborhood. A scarred bar, banged up stools, dark wood floors. There was a jukebox and cigarette machine in the corner. In the back was another room with a pool table and booths, although neither was often used.

It was a seemingly typical crowd for a week-night. A few regulars hunched over their drinks. The radio behind the bar playing programs from the Blue Network. Without asking, the bartender served up a bourbon on the rocks for Stoker. As he took a sip of the amber liquid, he heard a familiar, raspy voice in his left ear.

"Buy me a drink, handsome?" The question was accompanied by a woman's hand on his lower thigh.

"Sure, Rosey," Stroker answered, motioning towards the bartender and making a stirring motion with his finger pointing down at a spot in front of the woman. The barkeep nodded, and as it had been with Stroker, he did not have to ask what the woman was drinking.

"You're a doll," Rosey said as she lifted her gin-and-tonic with her left hand; her right still on Stroker's thigh. In her day, the bleached blonde had been quite the looker, and even now, despite the ravages of ****, two many cigarettes, and bad eating habits, she was not hard on the eyes.

The earlier images of the couple at the beach was still fresh in his mind, so he had been more than pleased when Rosey had joined him. Dropping his hand to her wrist, he pulled her multi-ringed hand higher up his thigh. All the way to his crotch. "What say we sit in the back and chat for a bit," the Private Eye asked, jerking his head towards the other room.

Rosey belted her drink back, draining the glass and calling over for a re-fill. When the drink arrived, the couple stood and meandered back towards the pool table and booths. A couple of the regulars noticed this, but no remarks were made. This was nothing out of the ordinary for Rosey. Standing by the table. the woman waited for Stroker to slide into the booth first. She had been around the bar circuit too many times to sit next to the wall and risk getting trapped.

Once the two had settled in, Rosey asked, "What should we... chat... about?" Already her fingers were un-buckling Stroker's belt.

"Oh, you know," the P.I. answered, shifting around a bit on the padded bench. "Whatever comes up."

It was a well worn joke; one that didn't require a response. The Detective looked down at his lap, watching as the red-taloned fingers pulled down his zipper and one hand reached inside his boxers. The bleached blonde gave the growing erection a few preliminary squeeze, encouraging it to swell and grow. Once it reached a semi-erect state, she gave a quick glance over her shoulder and then hauled out the cock from the confines of the clothing.

Snuggling up to closer to him, she did not bother with small talk. Settling instead on kneading the dick in her hand into a full blown erection. Once she had obtained her goal, she began to leisurely move her hand up and down the shaft. Her fingers wrapped securely around it. Tightening and relaxing her grip.

"Here," she said, releasing his cock and tugging the rings off the hand she had been using on him. "Don't want to snag it on one of these."

After safely depositing the rings into her bra, easily accessible due to the low cut of her dress, she resumed her task. The Private Eye spread his legs further apart and closed his eyes, enjoying the way the woman was working his dick. After several moments of beating him off, she once more released the cock. Bringing her hand up to her mouth, she spat into her palm, and went back to pleasing that cock.

For the next several minutes the couple sat in silence. The soft squishing sounds of the spit coated shaft being stroked were drowned out by the chatter and radio from the main room. The only sound either of them made was when a small droplet of pre-cum oozed from the slit in the tip of the dick. The bleached blonde "Ooo"-ed at the sight, knowing that she was progressing nicely in her task.

It wasn't much longer before the Private Eye started hunching his hips; his breathing becoming more rapid. Reaching around with her free hand, the woman cupped the man's balls. Gently caressing them, the tips of her fingers fluttering against the heavy ball-sack, she pumped faster. Harder. Almost immediately the Detective's hip began to thrust more rapidly and he made loud, gasping noises.

Rosey really began to pump in response to that. Pounding on that hard cock. Gripping it as tightly as she could. When an involuntary groan escaped from deep withing his throat, the woman squeezed his balls. Firmly but not cruelly.

That pushed him over the edge. The first shot arched high into the air, immediately followed by a second and a third. The bleached blonde pulled her upper body back a bit to avoid the spewing sperm, but she did not cease her rapid jerking. Dutifully she jerked on that cock until the blasts turned into squirts and then into dribbles. Slowing down and then completely stopping her stroking, she sat there with the softening dick in her hand. Once it was totally flaccid, she released it and reached for the rectangular napkin dispenser in the center of the table. Wiping her own hands first, she dropped the soiled paper on top of the table and pulled out two more to clean up the mess in the man's lap.

After she had dabbed away the sticky sperm from the man's crotch, she sat there silently nestled against him.

When he returned from the bliss of his orgasm to reality, the P.I. began refastening his clothing. Rosey took that as her cue and slid from the bench to move to the one on the other side of the table.

"Here, buy yourself another drink or two," the Detective said, tossing a couple of singles onto the table as he stood up.

"Thanks, Pete," Rosey replied. She took the rings from her bra, slid them back on her fingers, and tucked the money into her bra.