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Phil Noir, Private Detective
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Subject: Phil Noir, Private Detective (Story by Minstrel)
Date: Thu, 29 Apr 1993 00:17:45 GMT
Copyright 1993, The Minstrel Bi
Reposting or public archiving prohibited
It was in the middle of one of those long winters of our
discontent, too late for innocence and years too early for
big screen color TV, that I began to feel old, that I began
to notice that the mystery women in the biggest jams
with the best gams were going to the younger, blonder private
detective down the street. Apparently my smoldering good looks
had stopped smoldering. Not that little old ladies aren't *very*
grateful when you track down their beloved missing cat, and some
of them can really surprise you in the sack (and if you've never
tried making love in a sack, you don't know what you're missing)
but as a steady diet it gets, well, old.
In any event, I spent most of my time sitting in my cheap office
drinking cheap booze and polishing my gun. When I got bored with
that I'd clean and oil my revolver. I was doing the latter when
she came in.
She was the kind of woman you read about in stories like these.
She was an attractive woman, a desirable woman, the sort of woman
who adorns a man's darkest private fantasies, the sort of woman one
might put on a pedestal high enough, as Steve Martin suggests,
that you can look up her dress -- or maybe a pedestal only a few
inches high, an inch or so in diameter and prelubricated with ...
but I'm getting off the track.
"Do you do missing person work, Mr. Noir?"
"Sure. Who do you want found?"
"I don't know his name. He's medium age, medium height, medium
muscle. He has a mean disposition, a big gun and an even bigger,
um, reproductive apparatus."
"You could almost be describing me."
"Do you have a big, uh --"
"Sure. I keep it strapped to my ankle."
Her eyes widened. "Your thingie or your revolver?" I opened the desk
drawer, giving her a glimpse of nickel steel Colt. "Oh. It matches
your eyes. Well, one of them, anyway."
"I won't play the straight man for you, baby. Tell me what you want,
and no more jokes."
"I want you to take me at gunpoint."
"Take you where?" Yeah, it was dumb. It just came out of my mouth. I
recovered cleverly by taking the gun out of the drawer and brandishing
it, not pointing it at her but pointing it out to her. "Take off your
clothes," I said.
"Here?" she said.
"That's right."
"But I thought --"
"I'm not working for you, lady. You didn't give me a retainer. And
I've got the gun, so I give the orders. So strip. I'm not getting
any younger."
"I noticed." She'd already begun disrobing, even while she'd been
arguing. Her bra slid away from nipples like hard glass marbles.
I hadn't paid the oil bill in a while. The room felt plenty warm
to me, though.
Her clothes slipped away like money at the race track. She sighed as
the cold Colt caressed her curved cheek calculatingly. As my
steel handcuffs locked onto her wrists, she looked at me questioningly.
"I may need both hands later," I explained. "Now get down
on your knees."
She didn't know what I had in mind until I dropped my pants. Her
breath caught, which I attributed either to the magnificence of my
endowment or the fact that I'd had one testicle shot off in a knife
fight. "Please, no," she said. "I've never done that before."
"How do you know you don't like it until you've tried it?"
She made a face. "That's what my mother said about brussel sprouts."
The side of the Colt barrel, touching the nape of her neck,
put her in a mood to experiment. Considering that she knew damned
well that I wasn't going to shoot her (not seriously, anyway) she
gave it a damned good try, but some things just take practice.
Putting the gun on the filing cainet, I picked her up and spread
her out across the top of my desk. She couldn't have been wetter
if she'd been swimming with cement overshoes. (I'm not recommending
that as an aphrodisiac, mind you. It's just a metaphor.)
Some internal switch had triggered and she was, within the bounds
of her polite vocabulary, a wild woman. She nearly tore the
skin off the back of my neck with those handcuffs, and when she
wasn't kissing me she was saying stuff like, "Oh, yes, fornicate
with me. Oh. Have intercourse with me forcefully. Put that big
reproductive organ way up inside me." Despite what I'd said about
who was giving the orders, I did my best to comply. Purely out
of gentlemanly politeness, you understand.
She didn't seem to know enough about it to fake an orgasm, so I
figure she had at least two real ones. I limited myself to my usual
one. I disentangled myself from her arms, and let her lie back on
the desk, breathing hard. There was blood on her lower lip, but
I couldn't say whose.
She lifted her hands toward me. "You can take these off now, can't
you?"
"What for? We'll be taking the return trip in a minute."
"So soon? How can you?" she said.
I knew I had only seconds before the blood flow away from my brain
made me forget what I wanted to say, but I got it in. "It ain't
easy," I said.
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