Anthea s baby 1
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The First CaseChapter 1 free porn video
We sat in Sandy's Buick on the edge of the affluent neighborhood of Hawaii Kai, a beautiful place to view sunsets over water being at the southeastern corner of Oahu. I knew the view through childhood and still lived less than a mile from where we had set up our stake. I knew well the long broad rippling swash of red from the sun disappearing behind Honolulu and Pearl, somewhere in the vicinity of Makaha, but leaving a trace running along wave crests at the shoreline. It's a breathtaking moment which can be enjoyed every time it occurs, every day for a lifetime. Instead I looked at the redness of the sun reflecting off the lovely face of Sandy. More importantly, I looked down at the list of names in Sandy's lap. She puzzled over them too. We searched for a connection.
"Rainbow Warriors," I said out of the blue surprised by the words. They seemed to arrive at my mouth without thinking. The words emerged at the moment when all thoughts conjoined. Sandy looked at me, puzzled.
"Where'd that come from?" she asked.
I glanced into her intense blue eyes then back at the list.
"A cheerleader; the sister of a jock," I said, pointing to each name on the list. "That one assisted the trainer; she was a jock; volleyball I think, and tennis; and she was like a reporter for the school paper. Bet she covered the games. And how many dated the jock boys?"
"None," said Sandy.
"As far as we know."
"Some had boyfriends."
"No jocks. And none of the relationships seemed very deep."
"So where does that take us?"
"I don't know," I said.
We were looking at a clique of women in their late twenties who had been in small groups or in total at the scene of different parties: the drug overdose of the host of one party, a murder at another, and, most importantly if less deadly, the theft of some valuable jewels at a couple other parties (the insurance company had hired Sandy to look into the thefts). They were the only connection to all of those events. But the women seemed steady, successful, beyond reproach. At least that's how they acted.
"I wonder if they all took acting classes," I mumbled
"Maybe they're just naturals, the little devils,"
"This is a big case isn't it?" I asked rhetorically. "How about I go undercover?"
There was that stare again. Her eyes opened up. I could see the hint of a tear at the corner of the closest eye. She smiled. "They are a lovely bunch of women, Joe. You want to go undercover with one of them?" She winked.
"All in the line of duty boss."
"Who?"
"The nurse."
"She single?"
"In her heart."
"You wicked boy," she said, continuing her stare.
"What?" I asked as per usual when she stared at me in that particular way.
"You remind me of me when I was your age."
It was a comment she had made many times in our student/teacher relationship. To me, what with my constant admiration of her as a skillful investigator and just a human being in general, I took it as a complement. I would always give her a brief "thanks." This time I had something more to say.
"Of course I do. You're molding me into you."
"Let's celebrate," she said as she drove away from the stakeout. We'd gotten what we wanted for the client anyway. The lover cuckolded the old guy with his trophy wife. The lover's car sat in the driveway, a shiny black late model Mercedes 450 SL convertible, its owner, the young stud, barely thirty, cocky, arrogant, handsome and smart, like any professional Jew should be, the newest partner in the old man's law firm, was busy fucking the shit out of the voluptuous blonde babe in her private pink boudoir, in her pink lace draped canopy bed, in her hot pink, brunette crowned pussy. The stud may have been slick and smart, but made a dumb, career ending choice. We had documentation already. At that point we studied frequency.
"Celebrate what?" I asked.
"You being a man today." She smiled gently and the tear finally oozed out and rolled down her cheek, eventually dampening the ends of her wispy blonde hair. She didn't explain further. At that moment I didn't know what she meant. Now I do. But I sensed something important had happened in my life, something that made me proud of myself. Proud to at last be an investigator.
For the first time Sandy fully trusted me. She saw me as a colleague rather than a kid. I added to the solution of the case at hand.
As a kid I had a choice when my parents divorced to head to San Francisco with Mom or stay here with Dad. It wasn't a hard choice. Despite the grief my dad gave me for not getting my shit together and aiming high like he had, and despite the adventures possible with my mom who after ten years denying it, ten years married to my dad, discovered her free soul and explored it on the Haight with a hippie boutique ten years after the hippie had been buried somewhere nearby.
A successful businessman trading high quality art and artifacts from Japan and Southeast Asia to the Mainland, my father's company headquartered in downtown Honolulu, a warehouse full of cartons containing beautiful Asian pieces in transit, proved his genius: to locate himself in the most beautiful place in the world and make a lot of money. His genius allowed me to grow up here, spend my life here, find nowhere else to be to top it.
Problems came from my dad, being ambitious and careful, seeing the writing on the wall that I lacked ambition. The choice he made created an island boy whose mind seemed to coast on the continuous trade winds. Despite the conflicts, the anger, the misunderstanding, I remained an island boy, and he provided home and food, so in order for me to retain my soul, my true calling, I needed to hear his dissatisfaction with what I did with my life.
He still saw me as a child. I had grown up. I had found my ambition. The sort he wouldn't understand. Even my mother wouldn't understand.
I wanted to be a private detective. Not because of Magnum P.I. Being a private dick had been on my mind since adolescence, pre-Magnum. When I began rebelling, or Dad began pestering me, I shifted my filial loyalty from him to my "uncle".
My dad's best friend, a hapa haoli who had been Dad's chief of staff and driver in Vietnam, my dad having been a Colonel in the Army, Sam Kamalua contrasted like sun and moon with my dad's character and presence. My dad presented a tall, blond WASP, still broad in the shoulders and chest, keeping himself fit though age brought roundness to his stomach despite the multitude of sit-ups. I had my dad's stature and musculature. Since my mom looked similar that was natural. I also got my father's deep blue, deep set eyes, but ended up with my mom's longer broader nose instead of my dad's perfect little WASP nose. Despite the deep tan my dad had attained after many years on the island, my "uncle" being half native Hawaiian and half white, i.e. hapa haoli, remained two tones darker. Broad in the shoulders like my dad, he was broad everywhere else too. Average height, he looked short and stout beside my tall svelte dad. They also vastly differed in character, my dad ungodly serious and steady most of the time while "Uncle" had a twinkle and a smile unless riled up and his eyes radiated a frightening gaze that could pierce right through you and shake your heart.
They seemed to augment each other, to give perspective to each other's lives. Why else would they have been so close? They talked intimately in abstractions only the two of them understood. A phrase spoken making no sense to me caused them to break out in huge laughter.
The coded, secretive, baffling conversations could be alienating, and sometimes my mother seemed to react that way. She never befriended Sam. She didn't like the guy. She resented his presence, his intimacy with her husband which seemed to mock the distance, the disinterest my parents shared towards each other.
But I enjoyed the mysterious repartee Dad shared with his friend. I may not have understood what they said, but the warm feelings they generated in the family room when they chatted brought the most warmth and friendliness I ever got there.
Sam was a Lieutenant in the Honolulu Police Department. Occasionally, not too often so as not to be a pest, I visited him. Lunch I used as an excuse but mostly I wanted to observe and absorb the excitement. I liked the investigating and the planning. I liked the diversity of visitors in the squad rooms and in the hallways: lawyers, journalists, private dicks, along with the mostly seedy, gritty criminals full of the street.
The majority of the police considered private dicks a pariah. They worked for rich insurance firms too greedy to want to pay out large claims for property or accidents. They worked with some of the slicker lawyers whose clients had the wherewithal to hire a private investigator against the public investigators the D.A. had available. To the cops PIs represented something worse then the most confrontational journalist who usually ended up on the police side of issues anyway. These guys represented the other side.
Sam was the exception to the rule. He wanted to know of any dents in the prosecution and if those dents promoted rethinking the case against the accused. Sam's fellow police felt sacrosanct about the decision made to bust some guy and make it stick. Sam questioned easy solutions keeping his mind open to other views. He created a rapport with all the dicks he could trust, enabling truth. If he hadn't earned respect from his remarkable arrest record, his obvious intelligence and his authentic humbleness, fellow cops would have been unfriendly and he wouldn't have lasted. As it was, his untraditional viewpoint created enough waves to keep him from rising quickly or reaching anything above Lieutenant which suited him fine.
Sam considered Sandy Shaw the cleverest of the gypsy investigators. I think they may have had a thing for each other, maybe a fling some years back, maybe an occasional tryst in the hay. Both militantly single, opportunities must have been enjoyed.
In her early thirties at the time I met her, Sandy exuded smarts and beauty in equal parts. The Hawaiian sun created a dark tan and straw like blonde hair nearly bleached white. She tied her hair back but wisps above her forehead floated lightly across her eyes. Those blue eyes, dark as the sky before dusk, could penetrate.
A lean strong woman both physically and mentally, she took no shit from anybody. I noticed with others she came strictly to the point, but with Sam, they'd banter. Getting to the point would be too short to enjoy each other's company. Her intense gaze seemed more subdued with him most of the time. With the intensity each set of eyes could project, such a staring match could have been deadly. Maybe that's why they could have never stayed together as lovers, but only as loving friends. Except for Sam and me, men rarely witnessed her depth, her warmth, her caring, and her love.
Sam and I trusting each other enabled Sandy to trust me and take me under her wing. From there I learned everything in the two years I apprenticed with her. Sixteen years old when I began to hang with Sandy, I convinced my dad to pay her for teaching me the ropes.
I've never had a better teacher. She expected me to learn my lessons. She taught me the rules including rudimentary law--especially the stuff affecting what a private detective could and couldn't do--and precedent cases. Once I learned those, she taught me how to bend the law or even break it with discretion.
Our class often happened in her car, a powerful but nondescript brown Buick, while on stakeout or out on the beach getting more tanned. I quickly learned how she got a deep tan. Often outdoors during the day, we played a cover of just being a couple of sunbathers, a mother and son, She being about the right age if she had me in her late teens. We used actual law and private investigator texts as props, and my "mother" was also my "teacher" as cover and truthfully. We did a routine wherein without letting the subject of our investigation get too close, we insinuated ourselves into a friendship with a nearby couple. We'd play out the story of home schooling and get discussions going. Just as Sandy's Buick blended in on the streets, our seeming to belong to the beach made us invisible to our subjects.
These performances actually turned me on. I would adjust my stiffening cock in my revealing swimming trunks to do the best I could to not let anyone notice. I did catch Sandy glimpsing down at my package from time to time. When she did, I could swear I caught a demonic glint in her eye.
I got drunk from the bottle of champagne we ordered from her favorite bar to celebrate my coming of age. Harry's wouldn't be an anachronism in any old mainland city, but in Honolulu, with its tourist-centric view tainting every exterior and interior design, Harry's red Naugahide and hard wood booths, scarred cherry wood bar counter with stools matching the booths, its green felt pool table with faux tiffany lamp shade lights lighting its surface within the pervasive darkness, its beautiful Wurlitzer juke box accentuating the late 40s ambience with the proper soundtrack, the music of film noir, there wasn't one iota of Tiki or Bird of Paradise or palm tree swaying in the trade winds or surfing or surf hinted at inside.
Most of the sparse clientele looked like they had been drinking on the same stools since the place opened some eons ago. In my travels, I have encountered many fine examples of the comfortable neighborhood bar. There's always a touch or more often a full on slap of sleaze. Except Harry's. Being one of my first encounters with bars at that time, I couldn't appreciate this great downtown Honolulu institution. Somehow, thankfully, the place still stands, unchanged, unsullied by the relentless vicissitudes of the modern city. And in that sad, dark and beautiful place, I have reached the age where I, too, alone on the old red Naugahide stool and sipping my bourbon over ice, blend into the archaic world of Harry's.
As the night continued and we drained the bottle, Sandy moved from sitting across the table, to sitting on the same side, to sliding against me, making hip to hip contact. We displayed too much intimacy for mere friendship or family. Our fingers interlocked. We silenced all conversation, staring through the smoky darkness into each other's eyes. Our lips met for a gentle kiss which lingered. It felt like the kiss made sense, an inevitable meeting of flesh. The crescendo of our first kiss occurred with a touch of tongues. My half hard cock instantly inflated. Her libido sparked as well. I could smell her arousal over the smoke and liquor and musty age of our surroundings. It became too much for her. She pulled her lips from mine and untangled her fingers.
"Wait, wait, wait," she said, panting, lifting her hand, giving the universal sign for stop. Her bleary, intoxicated eyes glanced away and back into mine. She looked serious. We stared some more. She gingerly stroked my face. She smiled. "Joe, you're quite a man, aren't you?" I shrugged. After a quick hard kiss, the last of the night, she slid out of the booth and I followed with my hard-on easy to see bulging against my upper thigh, held tight by my shorts, the head threatening to reveal itself at the left leg opening.
When I stumbled from her car and entered my home, my dad caught a whiff and saw Sandy's car drive off. The day of change continued.
"You're not seeing that woman again," my dad ordered to my retreating back. No hemming and hawing. Right to the point. I like that about my dad. But what he said I didn't like.
I spun around, and, hands loosely on hips, wobbly legs apart a couple feet, I stood my ground. "Bullshit!" I tried to stop myself from being profane, something my dad hated, but nothing else said it. "Bullshit!"
"You live in this house you respect me! You respect my rules!" he roared.
I walked past him and up the stairs and into my messy room. Wrestling my hiking back pack from my jumble of a closet, I began to fill it with as many days of clothing that fit inside, about a week's worth, most of my clothes. I never had been a shopper, and looked it with my drab, profoundly casual personal dress code. A brief respite from my drunken anger, I thought about what I should wear to seduce the nurse. Did I need a new wardrobe? The thought made me smile and become excited, hardening my penis, but when I finished stuffing my bag, I got bitter again.
I studied my stash of money. Looking back on that moment twenty years later, I have to wonder if I had really grown up thinking I could manage on the five hundred dollars I had stashed away from my dad's allowance. I have to imagine twenty years of mental and physical weight off me to understand my resilience. Eighteen years old and brimming with life. And, of course, naïve as hell.
Calling Sandy allowed me to breathe. She had become my one and only friend. Sam represented not only a father figure but my father's peer and not someone I could trust enough to speak my mind like I would to a friend. I needed to talk to somebody before I made a momentous move in all senses of the word. The purpose of the call soon became apparent. I needed help, and she could help me.
After telling her what happened, telling her it wasn't her fault, telling her it was inevitable, she said what I needed to hear.
"Sleep on it tonight. I certainly can't pick you up now anyway."
"I'll take a cab to Wacky Wacky and get a cheap room." Waikiki was affectionately and appropriately given that nickname.
"Listen kid. You need to sleep on it. Everything's happening all at once, and your head isn't exactly clear to handle it. Sleep on it. Call me tomorrow. Let me know what you decide. We'll either have lunch, laughing the whole thing off, or we'll start making plans."
"You know I'm not going to stop working with you."
"You better not."
When she hung up, I noticed my erection. I used her to feed my masturbation sessions. Of course that evening's kiss had engorged my cock, but she had never done that to me just by talking. The night was Sandy's. Her voice and body defined the sexy darkness and mystery of a moonlit world. Her warmth, her generosity, her charm, and her support excited me. "You better not," her quiet steady voice whispered repeatedly in my mind.
I lay back in bed and freed my ever rising tube of flesh. The whisper repeated with each stroke. My eyes closed and I imagined her beside me in her car. I'm staring at the list in her lap. I stare beyond the list to her long firm legs, seeing under the list her warm thighs and the tuft of blonde hair I imagined between them. Brushing aside the list, spreading her legs, I imagined placing my head between her thighs and licking my way towards the pungent grotto. Imagining the give of skin of her inner thighs. Imagining reaching her pubic bone and sliding my tongue down. Imagining discovering her heat, her slick inner lips, her hooded clit, her taste. My hand pulled my cock harder, getting it larger and more demanding. The balls swelled with sperm. My mind felt my lips suck her clit to orgasm, imagining her fragrant flood of lust as I let go my pent up desire with a mighty spray of cum, doing my Old Faithful imitation the best I'd ever done.
Then I slept.
I woke up early, my mind slowly defogging from the night's libations, determined to go through with it. Once my dad left for work, I clambered out of bed, showered, ate a Danish and drank what remained in dad's pot of coffee. Then I sat down with a bunch of typewriter paper at the kitchen table and began to write.
Mikhaela
- 21.03.2020
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