Private Dick and the Conspiracy in Submissive City

It’s a hot day… too damn hot. The sound of the half-broken ceiling fan whirring on and off would normally been annoying as hell, but at least it’s keeping your little second story office cool… well, not cool, but tolerable.

You pour yourself some whisky into a glass over ice. To be honest, you’re drinking it more for the ice than for the whiskey.

She appears in your office door, tight dress, sweaty flesh. Someone who looks like her is always welcome, but you still have to ask. “How’d you get in here?”

“Your buzzer was broken. The woman in the butcher shop downstairs let me use the back stairs.” Her voice is soft like a field full of flowers. “She was pretty mad about it. Told me to tell you that she’s not your damn receptionist.”

“That’s what she tells everybody.” You say with a smirk. “Sit.”

“Is that an order? Do you like your women submissive?” She asks. You’re not sure if that’s curiosity or accusation you hear in her voice.

“I like them comfortable.” You reply, diffusing the situation and being cool. Might as well play the gentleman until you can’t.

She steps closer and sits, her dress creeping up her hips as she crosses her long legs. You wonder: Why wear a dress at all? Then she leans in, giving you a good view of her cleavage. She smells like flowers too.

“I need your help. I’m sure my lover is fooling around with someone else.”

“I don’t do stray dog cases.” You say quickly, thinking that if she looks like that and her husband is still stepping out on her than this flower must be awful thorny. “Any of the cheap investigators on Slope Street can follow your husband for…”

“I didn’t say anything about a husband.” She interrupts. “My lover’s name is Cynthia.”

The plot thickens… along with the package in your boxers. You’re not sure what this Cynthia looks like. But you bet she looks mighty good with her tongue between this flower’s thighs.

“There’s something else...” she takes a silk scarf from her clutch and runs it along her dewy décolletage, “I don’t have much money…"

“So let me get this straight.” You sip your whiskey. “You want me to trail some horny honey for ya, and you’re not even going to pay me?”

She stands and gives you a deep look in the eyes, then makes her way to your side of your desk, putting her hands on your chair and swiveling you toward her. “I said I didn’t have money.” She drops to her knees, “Not that I couldn’t pay.” Her right hand rests on your knee, then slowly glides up your leg, slipping down to your thigh, then pushing into the bulge in your pants.

You know what’s going on here. After all, you’re an attractive man with a nice cock and you know how to use it. Aggressive seduction is a big part of your own investigative style, so you recognize when someone else is employing it.

Still, you don’t see a good reason to stop what’s going on.

Within moments, she’s unbuckled your belt, unzipped your slacks, and is reaching inside to pull out your throbbing meat. Her left hand swings over to your whisky glass, grabs the ice cube from it, and as she lowers her ruby red lips onto your member, she slips the ice between her thighs.

“Mmmm” her eyelashes flutter with pleasure as her lips slide down your shaft, farther and farther, you assume she’s going to stop at some point, but she doesn’t. She goes down until her lips press against your body, and the tip of your cock presses against the back of her throat. When she slides her mouth back off of you, strands of saliva still connect her throat to your throbbing. manhood. She takes the much melted ice cube out of her and clangs it back in your glass.

“What do you say?” She asks, licking her lips. “Will you be my private dick?”