Tuppence. Or Dashiell Hammett's Nick and Nora Charles, more like. How exciting! We must sniff out the motive and find our man. Or woman…'
Harry nodded.
'Exactly. I wouldn't put anything past the Goldfinkel dame. That caterwauling at her toy boy's demise was as fake as the Swat's double F bra-busters. But why would she want him dispatched to the great mariachi fiesta in the sky? I could see it the other way round, if Raoul thought he had a way to get to her loot, but why would a middle aged nympho off her twenty-something Latin lover? Hmm. A blackmail angle, perhaps?'
I took a pensive sip of the somewhat tepid champagne. I was rather fond of a good mystery and had oft dreamed of slinking around in a belted raincoat, wise-cracking with jaded policemen as we examined some nastiness dredged from the bay. I ran the tip of one finger around the rim of my glass, eliciting a pleasing hum.
'Jealousy.'
My partner raised one eyebrow.
'Oh? You think Gigi's girlish party-time demeanor hides a green-eyed monster with murderous predilections?'
I placed my glass upon the table.
'It's possible. I'd say all things are possible when passions are aroused. Wouldn't you? Why, I could have scratched that Lush's eyes out when you were all over her at dinner and you took your green-eyed monster out on my bare bottom when we returned to the cabin! It's still smarting.'
I wriggled pleasurably against the sofa cushions, savoring the residual heat in my well-spanked buttocks. Harry coughed and assumed his 'not guilty' expression.
'Jealous? Me? Never! Any excuse for a good bun-warming session, that's all. Now, what is this 'lush' business? The Swat doesn't drink to excess, as far as I can see, and you're hardly one to talk!'
At last, I pulled my trump card out.
'Loretta Swat, celebrity weather gal and TV chef, was once a dancer and porn star called Voluptua Luscious. Lush for short. We danced together at the Pink Pussy Lounge in Ballistic. Took me a while to click as she's had some major body work done since '84.'
Harry grinned lasciviously.
'I'll say. Why don't you go for a boob job like that? Talk about endless hours of pleasure. And where the hell is Ballistic?'
I loosened my robe and appraised my breasts. They had always been naturally big but not huge, kind of soft and pillowy rather than the bouncy beach balls that the Lush thrust before her. Thoughtfully, I emptied two fruit and goodie bowls and slipped them over my boobs as makeshift falsies.
'What do you think, sweetie? Is it me? Ballistic is in Arizona, by the way. I was working my way west. Or was it east? Those days are a bit of a blur. Anyway, Pink Pussy specialized in the infamous Pussy Dance. That was one wild flesh parlor, I can tell you!'
My husband looked suitably amused.
'Oh, do tell. This all sounds vaguely familiar. What was the Pussy Dance about – naked girls with cute little whiskers and tails?'
It was my turn to smile. I wondered if I could recall the moves. Come to think of it, there weren't too many steps to learn. It was all about positioning. I removed the bowls and slipped out of the robe.
'Put your champagne down, darling. I'm going to give you a little demonstration.'
'Now you're talking!'
'Just lie back, relax and let me take care of everything…'
Harry stretched out on the sofa, his head at one end, feet protruding well over the other. He's a big boy. Slowly, sensuously, I began to unbutton his shirt, gradually exposing his hairy chest. His hands reached up to fondle my breasts and I squatted over him, enjoying the feel of his swelling crotch against my naked quim. I was just about to proceed to the nitty-gritty of the Pussy routine when a faint but familiar sound issued from the cabin next door.
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
'Ow! Ow! Ow!'
Slap, slap, slap, slap.
'Ow! Ow! Ow!'
SLAP, SLAP, SLAP, SLAP.
Harry groaned as I paused mid-Pussy. The staccato beat of implement on flesh thwacked on in a brisk duet with a heartfelt female yowl.
'I swear that's Boner with a light oak paddle! I never did care for blunt implements.'
'Don't tell me the dynamic duo are right next door! This is getting positively incestuous. What are the odds against this kind of coincidence happening, anyway? Our respective exes meeting and hitching. It's mind blowing.'
I dismounted and pressed one ear against the cabin wall.
'I'd know that rhythm anywhere. It's Boner all right. Listen. You can just hear Howard Stern in the background. 'Seven Brides For Seven Brothers.' He can't get the beat right without a yodel in the background.'
My partner snorted in mirth.
'Hee! Hee! Well, I just can't believe that old Frip is game for a spank. She always loathed anything other than straight sex in the missionary position. Talk about vanilla. She wouldn't even try fellating me. Said it was absolutely disgusting.'
I looked at my friend and couldn't imagine why a woman wouldn't want to savor his toothsome knob. He has a lovely cock, simply perfect for sucking. However, bitter experience had shown me that some prefer a slurp-free path.
'Well, that's obviously one thing they have in common. An oral aversion. Poor dears. They don't know what they're missing. Life without licks is like dried fruit. No juice.'
Harry nodded and we exchanged sorrowful glances at the thought of such a Spartan existence. Meanwhile, the spanking session seemed to be reaching an ouchy climax and Frip's squeals were turning me on.
'Get the toothbrush tumblers from the bathroom and we'll listen in! I still don't believe that's my ex in there.'
I was just heading off to fetch the water glasses when there was a protracted and somewhat piercing orgasmic shriek accompanied by a veritable taradiddle of paddling and yodeling. Then there was silence and a gruff male voice said:
'Next time, you won't forget that final stomach crunch, will you?'
A soft female voice murmured an unintelligible but contrite-sounding response.
Harry looked incredulous.
'Bloody hell. She never came like that with me! And she'd sooner have had her wisdom teeth extracted without an anesthetic than go over my knee for a spanking session!'
I took my husband's hand and led him back to the sofa. All was quiet on the next cabin front.
'So, why did you marry Frippery, darling? I've heard of the attraction of opposites and all that, but you're such a confirmed bon vivant and she's so prim. Was it that old chestnut about Caesar's wife being beyond reproach? I'll bet she was a virgin when you met her, am I right?'
Glumly, Harry nodded.
'You got it, smart ass. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I really thought I could teach her all the tricks of the trade, mold an innocent girl into the wanton love slave of my dreams, like that wicked chap in 'Dangerous Liaisons'. All I got was six months of dry sex and a very expensive divorce. She found a good lawyer. Now you know why I'm nuptial shy.'
I kissed my husband on the forehead.
