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From: prufrock54@my-deja.com (prufrock54)
Subject: {ASSM} The Dame Had Guts - Chapter 1 of 6 (MF mast) 
Date: Thu, 21 Jun 2001 16:10:02 -0400
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This is a generic warning label.
Respect authors' rights.
This story is intended for adult readers.	
This story may contain the explicit depiction of sex in some form.
If that offends you, stop reading and get a life.  Come back when you
get one.

I'm not making money from this and neither should you.
If that offends you, you're probably my wife.

No posting anywhere except ASSM without author's permission.

This is fiction, except for the true parts.
Do not remove this tag or you will suffer the penalty of prosecution.
Do not flame, or you will suffer the penalty of persecution.
Do not exercise, or you will suffer the penalty of perspiration.
Buckle up; it's the law.

Copyright: (C) Prufrock Productions - 2001

Comments should be directed to: prufrock54@my-deja.com


The Dame Had Guts
(A Dick Thruster Mystery)


Chapter 1
How's Trix?

It was a cold, grey day in January.  It was the kind of day when time
moved with glacier-like speed and the air hung heavy like a cement
pinata.  It was the kind of day where you didn't want to look into the
eyes of strangers you passed in the street for fear that you might see
that their lives were worse than yours and recognize finally that the
shroud of despair you wore like a security blanket was woven with the
fabric of your own self-pity and loathing.  It was the kind of day
where you found metaphors were in short supply but similes were a
bumper crop.  It was the kind of day that sucked -- and not in a way
that would make you want to date it.

I work in the big city.  Doesn't matter which big city.  They're all
the same:  a facade of majestically gleaming metal and glass erections
that cause the yokels to look heaven-ward while the filthy dregs of
society pick clean their pockets and souls.  It's a cesspool:  vile,
dank, and smelly.  It reeks like a rotting carcass left in a back
alley during a torrid heat-wave; it's shape undulating from the
legions of hungry maggots teeming under its skin.  It's where I live.
It's where I work.  And, God help me, I love it.

My name is Thruster.  Dick Thruster.  I'm a private eye.

That fateful day, I was staring out the window that had long been
glazed over with the hazy yellow film of cigarette smoke, trying to
ignore the piles of paperwork on my desk.  December had been a slow
month, as had the 15 months previous.  I don't know why.  Maybe I
shouldn't have headlined my Yellow Pages ad with the motto, "Call Me
When You Need a Dick."  I accept that it may have been a seriously
career-limiting marketing strategy on my part.  But tell that to the
bill collectors.

I turned in my swivel chair and stared at the stack of overdue bills
that had piled up on the desk.  Then I glanced at the larger stack
next to it; the one marked REALLY OVERDUE.  I needed to drum up some
business, and fast.  I needed a big case with a big retainer and lots
of big billable hours.  I needed to get off my big ass.  But mostly, I
needed a big wad of cash, or I was going to lose everything.

It's during times of desperation that one loses ones objectivity and
grabs at the first brass ring that presents itself.  It's how I got
into this whole fucking mess.  It's how I became involved with Mrs.
Elizabeth Amahjorah.

The phone rang while I pondered the piles that foretold of my imminent
professional demise.  I must have been pondering deeply or suffering
narcolepsy, for I noticed three cigarettes burning in the ashtray and
one smoldering butt hanging from my lips.  I listened to the phone's
shrill ring, wondering if my secretary Trixie was going to take the
call.  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her reach for the receiver.

"Dick Thruster, P.I.  Can I help you?"

Her nasality ripped through every membrane of my body.  Her voice is
as pleasing as hearing metal being sheared with a grinding wheel,
fingernails dragged along a chalkboard or subway train wheels rounding
a sharp curve.  What makes it more annoying is that she normally
speaks in a nice, modulated voice; almost with a sexy aloofness.  But
for some reason, she's decided to adopt the persona of a gum-snapping,
Bronx-born guttersnipe whenever she's in the office.  Maybe I was
rubbing off on her.

"Hold a sec, I'll see if he's in."  Of course, she knew I was in.  My
desk is only 10 feet away from hers in my one-room office.  She
pressed the button on the intercom and told me there was a call on
Line #1.  The fact that I only have one phone line, which would be
shortly removed if I didn't find work soon, doesn't seem to register
with her.  Nor the fact that I'm within spitting distance.  But she
insists on using the intercom, claiming it looks more professional.
Looks more professional to whom?  We hadn't had a client in since
November.

"Who is it?" I asked.

She didn't answer.  With an exasperated sigh, I repeated my question;
this time, into the intercom.

"I don't know.  He didn't tell me and I didn't ask."

"Probably a bill collector,' I said.  "Tell him I'm out to lunch and
take a message."

"It's 8:30 in the morning."

"Tell him I took an early lunch."

You're probably wondering why I even keep her around.  The answer is
simple.  I can't let her go.

When Trixie walked into my office three months earlier, she caught me
with my pants down.  Literally.  I take pictures for my clients who
are looking to get the goods on someone and I make it a habit of
keeping an extra set for my own amusement -- you know, jerk off
material.  It's usually pictures of their spouse doing the nasty with
someone else's spouse.  I was particularly down that day, debating if
I should resolve my financial problems by extorting cash from either
of the parties I'd caught on film.  I may be a pervert, but I have
ethics, so I finally opted for masturbation over extortion and put the
pictures to good use.  Eye candy to fuel the sugar-craving in my
loins.

I was sitting in my chair; one hand flipping through the pictures
while the other was busy buffing the bishop.  Polishing the porpoise.
Whacking the weasel.  And Trixie walked in.  I didn't notice her.  I
was otherwise occupied.  Hey, I'm a man.  I have a brain and I have a
penis, but only enough blood to run one at a time.  Only when she
spoke did I know she was in the office.

"Geez, has anyone ever told you that you seriously need help?"

My hands froze as I took my eyes off the pictures and focused on the
woman standing in front of my desk.  She stood 5'3", with steel-blue
eyes that quickly scanned my face, the pictures and then my engorged
penis; all with a twinkle of wry amusement.  She had a cute button
nose, and ruby-red lips that curled into a rakish grin;  all framed by
platinum-blond hair cut in a page-boy fashion.  I resumed stroking as
I looked at her figure: approximately 110 pounds of glorious curves
that swelled in the right places, contained in a form-fitting summer
dress.  I would have guessed at her measurements, but I was never very
good at math.

"You're right, I do need some therapy, but I can't afford it," I said
as I continued to tug my tumescence.

"No, I meant you look like you need help with that," she said,
pointing to my cock.

I looked down at my lap and said, "After decades of practice, I'm
Olympic material."  I looked up to leer at her, but jumped when I saw
she had moved right next to my chair.  I could smell her perfume
wafting toward my nostrils.  It had been a long time since I'd smelled
a woman, and I forgot just how aromatic they can be.

She took hold of the back of my chair and turned me toward her.  She
lifted the hem of her dress above her knees, just showing the tops of
her stockings and the beginnings of her garter belt.  In one swift
movement, she knelt between my legs, placed her hand over mine (the
occupied one) and said, "Here, let me give you a hand."

And so she did.

I didn't know who she was, but I certainly was in no mood for
conversing at that particular moment.  I never had anyone walk into my
office while I was masturbating, something I did frequently during the
extended slow period.  And I never expected anyone to just volunteer
to help me.  So, let's say I just didn't want to ruin this anomaly
with a load of extraneous chit-chat.

I looked at her lips, which curved into an O every time she joined me
on the downstroke.  I looked down the opening of her dress, watching
the swell of her breasts expand with each of her inhalations.  I
looked into her eyes and was swallowed up in a sea of blue as her gaze
fixed upon mine, her eyes widening each time she heard me moan as we
primed my pump together.

"Oh yes," she hissed softly, "You're liking this, aren't you.  You
love the feel of our hands together on your hot, throbbing pole.  You
like it when we go up, but you love it when we go dooooowwwwwnnnnn."
She stretched out the word, making it last at least five complete
stroke-cycles.

I looked down at her hand that was covering mine and she said, "No,
look into my eyes.  I want to see your eyes as you come.  You are
going to come for me, aren't you?  I want to feel you expand in our
hands.  I want to feel your juices travel up with force.  I want to
see how your eyes roll back into their sockets as you spray your seed
all over our hands.  I want to see your eyes widen in anticipation as
I slowly bring our hands to my mouth and clean them completely with my
tongue."

How much teasing can a man take?  The pressure had been building quite
nicely when she'd first walked in, and when she put her hand over
mine, my erection twitched.  And as she told me what she wanted from
me, I lost all control and gave it to her.

The first spurt rose between our faces, breaking through our locked
gaze.  Our attention turned to the display of seminal fireworks as we
watched the first volley reach its apex, hang suspended for a moment
and brake apart into tendrils of gelatinous goo.  Each ensuing shot
was launched with diminishing force, but she still "ohhed" and "ahhed"
like a child on July 4th until the last drop was rendered.

Her gaze shifted to my lap and she licked her lips.  My eyes widened
in anticipation of seeing her lap up the output of our mutual
endeavor.  My face fell into disappointment as I saw her grimace and
say, "Geez, that's disgusting.  You'll stain your cheap suit if you
keep doing this."

She stood up, reached into her purse, threw me a small foil packet
containing a moist towelette, opened one for herself, and asked, "So,
do I have the job?"

Still coming out of the fog of an orgasmic stupor, I just stared at
her for a moment, unsure of what I was being asked.  What job was she
talking about?  I could hardly afford to pay for the business.  How
could I afford to hire someone?  I would have to tell her "No."

Then she smiled.

A smile of childlike innocence.  A smile that hinted of her deep
belief that there was good in all things, that there was purpose to
life, that hope wasn't just a four-letter word for suckers.  It was a
smile so bright that it brought light to the dingiest corner of the
office and to the deepest, darkest recess of my soul.  Her smile
busted through the layers of crud that surrounded my heart.  A pinhole
of brightness shone into its depths and made it beat again -- beat
with purpose.  For the first time in a long time, I actually felt
something.  Something emotional.  Something that had been comatose for
so long.  It stirred inside me.  It wasn't love, and it wasn't lust.
But it was warm, and it was good.  And as I think about it now, it was
nothing more than a reaffirmation that life is not all corruption and
filth. 

I didn't have a job for her, but I'd be damned if I was going to let
her walk out of my life as easily as she walked in.  So, I decided
that I only had to eat four times a week and could use public
transportation to do my job.

She started that afternoon, right after she announced that she didn't
make coffee, do windows, or swallow.  By five o'clock that evening, I
already hated her telephone voice.  She couldn't type and the only
filing she was proficient at involved an emery board.  I knew I
couldn't afford to keep her.  But, she had become the lighthouse for
my lost-at-sea soul. I knew that the price I'd pay for letting her go
was far more expensive.

End Chapter 1

(C) Prufrock Productions - 2001

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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