Greetings fellow lover of erotic fiction.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental. This is an entry in the Summer Lovin' contest. Check out the other entries. They are pretty great. Don't forget to vote and add a constructive comment or two.
This story was inspired by the stunning black and white photos that the beautiful women of AmPics Forum on the Literotica Bulletin Boards have been posting lately. You all know who you are. Thank you all, Ladies.
A well composed B&W pic is a work of art. The fantastic AmPics B&W pictures make me think of Noir mysteries of the 40s and 50s. Philip Marlow. Sam Spade. The Thin Man. Mike Hammer. And the "great dames" they associated with: Lauren Bacall, Rita Hayworth,. Mary Astor, Myna Loy, Joan Crawford.
This is a work of fantasy. Time is compressed.
You'll find depictions of various sex acts between consenting adults, both of whom are over eighteen. Most of the sex is pretty vanilla, with a rough edge that you might expect from Dashiell Hammet or Mickey Spillane. Remember: vanilla is a pretty great flavour. And there is a dead body, because you need a dead body for a murder. I think that's usually one of the first things they teach you at Writers' School. If any of that bothers you, move on.
This is a quickie; under 3000 words. Perfect to read in the still heat of a summer night with the persistent sweat dripping off...well you get the idea.
Thank you to Justadesperatewifeandmom for reading the draft and commenting on the story.
Please vote and leave a constructive comment or two. Enjoy!
***
The sun had been down for a couple of hours. The stars had finally put in an appearance for the evening. The air was still, the heat remained oppressive. Sweat dripped from my brow and filled my glasses. My shirt felt like a damp paper towel. This kind of heat wave makes people a little crazy. Things happen. Anything at hand can become a murder weapon. People sometimes use the last bit of their creativity to find a way to end the life of someone who stood in the way of the air conditioner or took the last cold beer.
Yeah, it was a busy night.
My knuckles made a sweaty splash when I knocked on the door. The Babe let me and the two uniforms in.
"Dispatch said there was a call from here about a dead body. That him?" I said, asking the obvious.
The man was dead. The body was laid out flat on the floor, not moving. No breath escaped his lips. His eyes did not open.
Dead. Like the stagnant air.
But he died happy. His wide smile and the prominent tent in his pants made that clear.
"Yes." She replied softly, her head down, evidently staring at her own large breasts. Yeah, I noticed. I'm a detective. That's my job.
Her large tits were barely contained in a thin black nylon cover up that covered nothing and was way too small to even attempt the job. It stopped well short of her navel and the buttons were several inches from touching. She wore black seamed stockings despite the heat. They were held up by garters. No panties; her sparsely furred muff was visible as she moved. She stood nearly as tall as me in four-inch fuck me pumps; the kind a woman wears to go out but carries home.
The kind a creative woman could use to kill a guy.
Her face was long, angular and stunningly beautiful. Her dark eyes shone in the half-light of the hallway. Her slight overbite left her full deep red lips open a little, displaying even white teeth.
"Do you know what happened?" I asked, as I managed to tear my eyes away from her boobs. I figured I'd remember where they were and check back later.
"I killed him." She said. "In self-defense" she added, raising her eyes to look at me without raising her head. I wondered how many times that look had gotten her what she wanted by implication. It made my cock twitch.
"Self-defense?" I asked. "Do go on."
She took a deep breath, raising her chest and opening her skimpy robe enough to expose her nipples. They were erect. Police work is mostly about small details.
"He came home drunk, with the insane idea that I had been cheating on him." She began in a husky whisper. She spoke in a voice that sounded like cigarettes and Bourbon.
"Where did he get that idea?" I asked, flipping open my notebook. Solid police work there. Catch the suspect off guard with a question they weren't expecting.
"From the guy I blew in the parking lot at the club last night. But you know, 'eating ain't cheatin', right? A President said that!" She was excited and her voice rose above the husky whisper to a shrill soprano.
"Okay." I said, doubtfully. "You mean Bill Clinton? I don't think he ever actually said that." Maybe to Hillary.
"He had a gun. Its over there on the floor." She said pointing past the dead guy. There was indeed a large menacing looking handgun on the floor, just beyond the body. As she gestured her negligee came completely open, fully displaying her impressive rack. It was impressive in this man's opinion anyways. She covered up slowly, in a practiced move guaranteed to expose more than it hid.
"Okay." I said as one of the Uniforms snapped a quick picture and recovered the weapon. "And, the hard-on?" I asked.
"Well, he was furious, so I did the first thing that came to mind. I flashed him!" She said, opening her top and letting her huge tits demonstrate their calming effect. She swayed side-to-side a bit, putting the girls into motion.
