| Lesbian: Lusty Liaisons: The Pearl Detective - Part 1: Harlem Nights |
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You know about Harlem Nights, don't you? The kind of night in the height of summer when it's too hot to wear even the skin you're in? You have the windows thrown wide open in the hope of getting a 'through draft' and the only thing you wear is a thin sheen of sweat. City noises intrude constantly, the wawawa of the police siren in the distance, the neighbours across the alley rowing well into the morning, muffled bass from a boom box in a passing car. Sleep won't come; it's driven away by the constant, unwaning heat. You have some seedy-sounding jazz playing in the background—mood music, The Bill Evans Trio, or maybe some Chet Baker. The lights in your apartment are off, but the neon flash from nearby signs flows in through your windows, polluting your space. From far off a dog barks, is answered by the voice of many dogs, agitated by the heat. A telephone rings somewhere, going unanswered—damn, of all the noises in the busy, hot night it's that one noise that sets your teeth grating. Your naked form is sitting perched on the wide windowsill, smoke shrouding it from your burning cigarette, which you are about done with. Absentmindedly, you reach for another, light the new with the old before extinguishing the life from the burnt-down stub. You glance toward your bed, the covers in a tangled heap an admission that you at least tried to sleep. You hear people pass a couple floors below, more than two, but you're not sure for certain how many there are. They're headed away from the street, down toward the dead end of the alley—away from normal foot traffic. Stilling your body, you listen for snatches of conversation. The alley, as you know, is a favourite place for whores to take their johns for a quick 10-dollar blowjob, the staple of their working day. All becomes quiet. The whole city, it seems, pauses in its nightly doings. The pause is broken when a short scream rings out, followed by — how many? — pairs of feet running toward the street. Stubbing out your cigarette, you leave the perch by the window, seconds before an earth-shattering scream rings out — constant, no sign of let-up — the kind of scream that brings goose bumps breaking out in clusterfucks all over your skin, the hair covering your body in a fine down immediately rising and Satan himself dances on your grave, your flesh shivering with uncontrollable fear. ****** Down at the precinct we were as busy as any overheated night. The ceiling fans did nothing more than move hot, stale air around. No good at all for cooling a body. I picked up my by-now-cold cup of station coffee, took a pull at the darkly bitter brew and managed to swallow it just as the phone on my desk shrilled. I answered on the fourth ring. “Delano speaking,” my stock reply for all phone calls these days. ”Delano, Brinks at Central. I'm down in the alley just off Morgan and Fritz; we've got us a 10-27-1. My unit is sealing off the area, forensics have been notified and coroner is en route.” The voice curt and businesslike. ”Ok Brinks, you know the drill. Seal off, and await further instruction.” Grabbing my jacket, I headed out the door, pausing briefly to poke my head around the door to the men’s locker room to rouse my partner, Lou, from a fitful slumber. Jesus, but the guy stank of day old sweat; his skin had a greasy sheen, which matched his greying pallour to a tee. His clothes always looked like he'd slept in them, crumpled and stained with whatever it was he'd eaten lately. We got to the vehicle bay, jumped in the one that had been allocated to us at the beginning of the shift. A black Crown Vic, held together by rust and goodwill. I put it into drive and we kangarooed 300 feet down the road before it decided to level out and play along with us. The windows were broken, and the blower was stuck on 'hot' so, for the silent 20-minute drive over to the crime scene, we were basted in our own juices like oven-roasted chickens. When we reached the alley it was bathed in the surreal blue neon of the attending cop cars. The coroner’s van pulled in behind us and Montague and Pepper, two scenes of crime officers walked over from their vehicle. I nodded a hello at the colleagues before heading over to the tape and the officer standing guard, trying to keep nosey onlookers from getting too good a view. I reached him in five strides, my I.D. ready in my hand to flash at the attending officer. ”You Brinks?” I asked, even though I'd already caught site of his name badge. He nodded, sneering at me - something I'd grown used to in the highly charged sexist environment in which I worked. “Ok, what have we got?” I asked, stepping under the tape stretched across the mouth of the alley. ”Female. Caucasian. Early to mid twenties. Five-five, five-six. I recognise her as one of the streetwalkers. Can't recall her name, but she's owned by a pimp — Johnny Lo' — he owns half the girls in this neighbourhood. Body was called in shortly after three, found by one of her stable-mates. She's with Lowen and Crawley in their unit over there.” He stopped, half turned, and nodded his head in the direction of the entrance. It was then I caught sight of the figure in the window. Naked flesh, moving quickly out of sight. I made a note of the position of the apartment before turning my attention back to Brinks. We were six feet away from the kill spot when he paused again, mid flow — his hand rested on my arm. He looked me up and down my tailored form, his eyes resting on my suede, low-heeled boots. Once again a sneer formed and he looked up to meet my eye. “It's a blood bath back there. You're going to get your pretty boots mussed up, lady.” Glancing back along the alley, at the various colleagues picking their way tentatively toward us, I leaned in toward him, my lips actually brushing against his ear as I spoke. “Listen up, you cheap fuck — speak to me like that again, and I swear I'll shoot you where you stand. Now take your fucking hand off me and back the fuck away.” I straightened up, my tall frame allowing me to meet his glare head on. His hand dropped away from my arm, and he physically stepped back two paces, mentally four or five. I stood back to let Montague and Pepper pass, watching as they booted up, waiting for Lou to catch up, which, when he eventually did, he spent another five minutes puffing and panting, getting his breath back. The proverbial handkerchief mopping his sweating brow. When I was more certain he wasn't about to keel over and die, I shouted to the two guys attending the body, telling them to let me know of any finds they might make as soon as possible before turning to Lou and nodding in the direction of the apartment building from which I'd spied the naked form just minutes earlier. “I'm taking the sunny side of the street, Lou. You take this one. Every door. You need to call at every door, not just the ones you hear the TV behind. You never know, someone could be sitting waiting to name names and clear this thing up by morning.” I didn't wait for his reply before starting off for the rear of the building. I started on the first floor. Hammering on doors, waiting a minute or two before hammering again. Most were answered by people obviously agitated by the heat, some glad of the diversion from having to try to sleep, others just peeved at having to bother moving at all. The second and third floors bore the same yield; nobody had seen or heard anything. Not unusual in this neighbourhood, but annoying nonetheless. Forty-five minutes after my first enquiry, and I was stood outside THAT door. I raised my hand to hammer it, surprised when it was opened before I'd had chance to make the descent. The female who stood in front of me matched me in height. Her hair fell about her shoulders in soft curls, honeyed skin now decently covered, although, even in shadow it was possible to see the outline of a nipple jutting, pushing against the thin cloth of the t-shirt she'd thrown on. I let my eyes travel down her body. The t-shirt stopped only just in time to keep her pussy from view. Her legs, long, shapely legs, the kind of legs anyone with a pulse would want wrapped around them. ”I knew you'd come,” she whispered, standing aside, an invite for me to enter. “I have information,” she smiled, and I walked into the apartment, calling in to despatch my whereabouts and that I was questioning a possible witness. The apartment smelled faintly of cigarettes, and I took a seat in one of the two chairs facing each other, making a big pretence of getting out my notebook, jotting the crime number, and other relevant facts as she sat opposite me, curling her feet underneath her. “Name?” I asked, much more bluntly than I'd intended, my gaze stopping short of reaching hers at the sight of the curve of her bottom where her t-shirt failed to cover. The only light in the apartment came from what I guessed to be the bathroom, and it fell short of shedding enough luminescence to light the shadow that hid her pussy from my desperate view. ”Emily Naughton,” came the reply, eventually — breaking my reverie — and I looked up, caught a smile play across her mouth. She shifted in her seat, placing her feet flat on the floor, her shirt riding up to expose the naked, smooth flesh of her genitals. Smiling, she opened her legs further and there it was. The only place on earth I wanted to be that night. ”How do you want me?” she asked innocently. “Shall I come quietly or will you handcuff me before sinking your tongue inside my willing hole? Are you a take-charge kind of gal, or do you prefer to be enslaved by your fuck-buddies? Who gets to spank who?” They say actions speak louder than words, and the fact that the next minute saw me on my knees, my hands pushing her legs back, opening her up for my mouth to have better access to her teasing, wet cunt, must have been screaming, shouting. My tongue pushed inside her labia, lips sucking hungrily at her clit, tongue lapping feverishly at every drop of her sex juice — like I'd craved the addictive taste. I moved a hand from her leg, pushing two fingers inside her dripping hole, in-out, a slow fucking movement, gaining pace and strength. Her breathing became ragged, and I was aware of the walls of her pussy closing in tighter around my fingers. My teeth nipped at her exposed clit, her hands pulling the shirt over her head, exposing her breasts. Feeling along her body with my free hand, I grabbed a tit, squeezing and pulling it. Her nipple pushed harder against me, vying for attention. I grabbed the nipple between finger and thumb, rolling it, stretching it, until she gave a little gasp of pain. It was then my teeth bit down hard on her clit, my fingers curling up inside her cunt, speeding up more. She cried out, begged me to stop—then, “NO, NO, don't stop!!” And I didn't, not until her body spasmed and she fought for breath. I could feel a coating of her sex on my lips, could taste her sweet juice on my tongue, and smell her scent in the air. And, fuck me, but I wanted more. I straightened up, leaving one hand resting on her tit, the other buried in her moist cunt and I feasted on the sight of her. Legs spread, back arching to push those tits out further — her tits, perfect orbs of lip-smacking perfection. ”My shift finishes in three hours. I'm going to swing by here on my way home with breakfast for two. I'll need to question you properly then, Emily.” She nodded, gulping air. ”I'll be here, waiting for you,” she said. ''Take the keys, let yourself in.” After cleaning her (fuck-me, delicious, tasty and definitely more-ish) juices from my hands and face, I walked to the door, pocketing the keys on the way past. She watched me closely, till my hand was on the door and she came over, pressing her still naked body up against me, her lips lightly brushing my cheek. ”I'll see you in a few hours, Detective,” she whispered. I played my fingers over her tits, down her belly toward her pussy, laughing when I knew she wanted my fingers pushing inside her labia again. Fuck, but I was going to have so much fun teasing this sexy trollop. I flicked her nipple before stepping through the door, still laughing at how eager she was. By the time I hit the street again, I was all business as usual — my after-work treat still a faint taste in my mouth. |
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