by Jewel Geffen
Hotwife Miami 2: Undercover Cuckold
by Jewel Geffen
Copyright 2019 - Jewel Geffen
All rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Also by this Author
Chapter One
The walls of Reginald Mason's study were lined with artwork. Oil paintings, mostly, framed with ornate golden and bronze colored scroll-work frames. They depicted nudes, voluptuous pale-skinned women with their full breasts on show. One picture, larger than the others and displayed in the center of the back wall, was of three large black men, also naked. A Caucasian woman knelt before them, gazing up in wonder.
The paintings were displayed brazenly, as if daring one to question them or comment. Scott wouldn't have been surprised to find such things on display at the Black and White Club – Mason's exclusive interracial swinger's association – but they seemed somehow shocking here.
Mason himself luxuriated in his environs. He caught Scott glancing at the paintings and grinned widely beneath his waxed mustache.
At the moment he was sitting back in a large plush chair, puffing on a slender cherry-wood pipe. The rich scent of tobacco filled the room as he puffed away. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he withdrew the pipe and blew out a trail of cloudy smoke. “My goodness, but you have had an adventure, haven't you?”
Scott had just finished debriefing Mason – his current employer – about the details of the case to date.
It had been about a week ago that Mason had first hired him. Scott was a private investigator who specialized in marital difficulties – which was to say that he usually ended up snapping photos of cheating husbands or wives through the curtains of motel room windows.
Mason had hired him to find out who was doing more or less that to the members of his Club. Rich white women cheating on their husbands with strapping black men – a fair number of them doing so with their husband's permission and approval – were being photographed while having sex.
Scott had caught the man, but the case was far from closed, in his mind. The man who'd done it had revealed himself to be nothing but a flunky, just a hireling doing a job. The real culprit behind it all was still out there, and Scott still didn't know what the grand plan had really been.
It was that second part that really disturbed him.
“It was an experience, to be sure,” was all Scott said, shifting uncomfortably in his little wooden chair. It wasn't quite big enough for him to sit in comfortably, and he wasn't a particularly large man. He couldn't help but compare it to Mason's enormous plush throne.
“I took the liberty of looking into the man you apprehended,” Mason said, his voice as casual as if he were asking for a look at the wine menu at a restaurant. “Henry Virgil, was the fellow's name. He has been employed at my Club for the past five years – though he doesn't work there anymore, it need hardly be said.”
Scott leaned forward to take the slender dossier that Mason had withdrawn from the case at his side. An employment record, it looked like. Hardly a comprehensive report, but it seemed to contain a good deal more than would normally be expected in an employee's file.
Scott flipped through it. Something caught his eye at the bottom corner of the last page, a scrawled signature in blue ink. “Vetted by:? What's that mean?”
Mason sighed, tapping the tips of his fingers together. “Well, we can't just let anybody work at the Club. Sensitive and private business, you understand. Every employee, from the cooks to the bartenders to my own personal lieutenants, is given a thorough examination before any offer of employment is extended to them.”
“How thorough?”
“Quite,” Mason said with a dangerous glint in his eye, “...Although it seems it may not have been entirely thorough enough.”
“Apparently. Who is this, anyway? That's not your signature, is it?” Scott squinted down at the name. It was little more than a loose scrawl, only the first letters of each name could be properly distinguished. A P and a B.
“Not mine, no,” Mason said vaguely, waving a hand dismissively. “It hardly matters. Suffice to say we will be taking a close look at our hiring practices. Still. There's no harm done, really. The man has been caught, and didn't have a chance to put whatever criminal mischief he was planning into action, so it seems we've dodged a bullet, haven't we? I can't thank you enough for the service you've provided.”
Scott frowned. “I'm sorry?”
“You've done a fine job,” Mason said, and reached into his waistcoat pocket. He pulled out a check and gave it a snap between his hands. The cream-colored paper was stiff and rich-looking. He held it out to Scott. “Your well-deserved payment. I think you'll find it's… somewhat larger than what we'd initially discussed. A token of my gratitude and esteem.”
“Thank you sir,” Scott said, leaning forward and reaching out to take the check. He sat back down before he looked at it. The so-called token was significant. Significant enough to make him just a bit uncomfortable. “I'm just not quite convinced that the matter is closed...”
Mason chuckled lightly. “The man Virgil has been taken into custody by the police, and no incriminating pictures ever made their way out into the public. What more is there to do?”
“Well, sir... it's about this employer of Virgil's. The mysterious man who put him up to all of it.”
Mason just shook his head, an almost disappointed frown on his lips. “Now now, Mr. Chapel, surely you're not buying into that rubbish? An obvious ploy. This Virgil fellow was clearly working on his own. He used his position as the doorman to observe people's comings and goings, then formulated the plan to blackmail them. He followed them and took the photos. Fortunately we caught him before he could do any damage.”
“I... I'm not quite sure the evidence lines up with that, sir.”
Mason sighed, his brows furrowing intently. “Mr. Chapel, I assure you that Virgil never had any employer but myself, and that arrangement has been terminated. There's no need to pursue this further. I thank you for your service, and will keep you in mind should a situation of the sort arise again. Now, if you please, I have a great deal of work to catch up on. I'm afraid this matter has been quite a drain on my time and attention. I'm glad now to put it to rest once and for all.”
Scott knew a dismissal when he heard one, but he wasn't ready to let this go just yet. There was more here, he could smell it. Whatever sixth sense that private detectives had that put them on the trail, his was going off like crazy at the moment.
Still, it was clear he wasn't going to make any headway with Mason right now. He got up and started for the door, clutching desperately to the check. He paused at the door and he turned back. “What about James Cain?” he asked.
Mason's eyes hardened. “Hm, yes... Mr. Cain. Well, I'm afraid that his involvement with my club may be drawing to an end.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. The professor is responsible, if I understand correctly, for the names of those women being let out in the first place. It was a planner of his that Virgil used to arrange his picture-taking sessions, is that right?”
“Well... I suppose so,” Scott admitted.
“Well then,” Mason said coldly, “it may be that Mr. Cain is not the sort of man we can have
in our little club.”
Scott glanced once more at the painting above Mason's head. He couldn't tell if the three black men depicted there were in a position of power or not. At first glance, it had looked like they were dominating the supplicant white woman. Now that he looked again, however, he thought he could sense of sort of overarching presence, a darkness above them that seemed to weight down upon them. Something which controlled them in the same manner they controlled the woman kneeling before them.
He shut the door and showed himself out of Mr. Mason's enormous mansion, back out into the steamy Miami night.
Chapter Two
Scott watched the light glowing red.
Stop. Stop. Stop.
Why didn't he just stop? What did any of this really matter to him? What did he really care about what happened at some kink club downtown? The check was right there in his pocket, that's what he needed to focus on.
Something was fishy about it all, but why should he worry himself? It wasn't any of his business what happened to a bunch of snooty rich couples and the men they decided to screw. They weren't his concern.
Of course... there was James to consider. He wasn't sure he'd exactly call the Professor a friend; there was something between them, though. He couldn't say for sure where they stood, the two of them, but there was a feeling he couldn't quite shake that the guy might be in more trouble than he thought.
“Forget it, Scott,” he muttered under his breath as he tapped his fingers on the wheel. “It's just a job. You're not running a charity service here... He can take care of himself.”
There was more to it than that, though. There was the matter of Scott's wife Julie. Julie with her copper red hair and pale Irish skin and freckles dappled across her full bosom. Julie who'd formed a clear attachment to the black man, perhaps even an attraction.
Scott felt like he should be angry about it, should feel furious and betrayed. But what had happened? Nothing, only a few lingering glances and intense conversations between them, she hadn't cheated on him. And, even if she had...
Well, he wasn't sure what he would think about that.
He kept thinking of the other night when he and James had laid their trap for the stalker. James had gone to have sex with a woman to lure in the photographer. A woman with copper red hair and fair Irish skin and a soft voluptuous body.
Watching from across the dunes, Scott could almost have believed he was watching the man have sex with his wife. And he'd liked it, at least a part of himself.
The light changed. Green.
He stepped on the gas and turned back towards home. He was cruising through the night, going into a sort of Zen state as he went, the way he always got when he was driving at night. Sweat rolled down his cheek.
This heatwave just wouldn't quit. It had been pushing triple digits for weeks now. He'd already burned out two fans in his office, and the air conditioner in his car was getting a work out. It wasn't even cooling off after dark these days; the nights were just as sweltering as the days.
He reached for the radio and switched it on. There was a crackle of static and a voice came through. He'd left it switched over to his police scanner:
“Code 10-70, report of fire in progress, 227 Juniper Ave, repeat this is a code 10-70, fire in progress.”
Scott paused with his fingers on the dial. Something about that address sounded somehow familiar. 227 Juniper Ave.... 227 Juniper Ave...
His eyes went wide when he realized where he'd heard it before. More than that, he had been there only a couple days ago. He jerked the wheel hard to the right and stepped on the gas, his sense all suddenly on high alert.
227 Juniper Ave was where James Cain lived.
* * *
The place was lit up in a furious blaze when Scott got there, huge red flames licking the black sky like great lashing tongues.
He skidded to a stop well away from the conflagration and stumbled out of the car, gazing in awful terror at the inferno. The heat washed off the crackling house in suffocating waves, and huge black clouds of smoke rose dense and dark to the night.
The ground was lit by the flashing of fire engine lights, the air filled with the wailing of sirens and the shouting of firefighters rushing desperately back and forth.
There was no saving this place; Scott could see that right away. It was going up like a house of matches. It occurred to him right away that this was not an entirely natural fire.
Someone had done this on purpose, he was sure of it. And who could it be but the doorman Henry Virgil's mysterious employer? James and he had caught his lackey, and this was his vengeance.
Scott thought of the knife he'd found driven into James' pillow up the hilt, pinning down that awful message: You're next. And here it was, the promise carried out, vengeance taken.
He stumbled closer to the fire, gaping at its awfulness.
“Hello there, Mr. Chapel. Come to have a look?” he heard a deep glum voice from off in the darkness.
James Cain came walking out of the gloom, his hands in the pockets of his slacks. The firelight danced in the lenses of his spectacles.
“What happened?” Scott asked senselessly.
James glanced over at the fire. “I suppose it could be a coincidence, but I'd be willing to hazard a guess that we pissed off the wrong person.”
“I was kind of thinking something like that myself? What are you going to do? Do you have a place?”
He hesitated. “I... have family up north, but...”
Scott shook his head. “Look, the place is insured, right?”
“Of course.”
“You'll get it back, I'm sure. The problem is that you're in danger.”
“You think this was meant for me?”
“If it wasn't, then it's a hell of a warning shot. This isn't over, Professor. They're out to get you, and they're not letting up. We're on to something big here, and I'm not going to let it go until I've got some damn good answers.”
“What do you propose, exactly?”
“I don't know,” Scott said, setting his jaw. The heat of the fire seemed to swell and build around him. It was as if the entire night were on fire. “I'm going to find out, though. You with me?”
James looked at the fire, and his features hardened, a cold light in his eyes. He nodded slowly. “I am.”
“Good. You've still got some stuff at my place, right? The room's still set up. Come back with me, we'll lay low.”
“And then what?”
“And then,” Scott said, licking his lips, “we're going to figure out who's fucking with us, and we're going to fuck them right back.”
Chapter Three
Scott dropped James off at the house. “Explain it all to Julie, will you? Tell her I'll be back as soon as I can be.”
“Where are you going?” James asked, his voice low and thoughtful.
“Gonna see if I can get some answers.”
“Be careful. We don't know who's behind this, or what they're capable of. If they're willing to burn down a house, killing a man can't be too far behind.”
“Believe me,” Scott said grimly, “the thought had occurred to me.” He pulled out with a screech and hit the accelerator.
He didn't know who was doing this, but they'd gone too far. Whatever game they were playing couldn't be worth burning down houses or threatening people's lives. It was time to stop messing around.
He hadn't pressed the man on the beach when he'd caught him, and he regretted that now. He'd had Henry Virgil at his mercy, and he'd let the bastard wriggle free. He hadn't thought things would escalate so quickly, a part of him had actually assumed that the whole thing would wind down quietly.
Clearly that wasn't the case.
The cops had Virgil, though, and Scott had enough friends on the force that he should be able to arrange a little sit-down with the former doorman.
He didn't how he was going to do it, especially not with the hawkish eyes of the police on his every move, but he was going to get that n
ame.
He glanced at the dashboard clock. 1:22.
Christ, it was late. He needed sleep. He'd hardly had a good night's rest for days now. He'd get this done and hit the hey hard. He was looking forward to that very much.
What was his wife doing right now? Comforting the distraught Professor Cain? He was sure she was, Julie wasn't the sort to let anybody suffer alone. What form would her ministrations take? There they were, tossed together alone and in a state of distress... might that attraction blossom? He could picture them tumbling into bed together without even realizing what was happening.
What would he do if he came back in through the door and found them tangled up in bed together, their clothes askew and their skin glistening with sweat? A part of him almost wanted it to happen. God, what was happening to him? This case was screwing up his brain, and good.
Maybe when it was all done he'd take a good long break. Bring Julie on vacation somewhere, now that was an idea.
He pulled into the police station and went inside. The night shift was on duty, but that was fine by him. The night beat cops were the ones he knew best. He was a creature of the night, just as they were, just like the prowlers and stalkers and illicit lovers he hunted.
“Hello, Chapel,” muttered the desk sergeant.
“Hey, Chuck. How's the wife?”
“Surgery's on Monday.”
“Good luck to her.”
“Hey, thanks. I'll pass it on.”
“Kowalski in?”
“Far as I know. Help yourself, but watch out. He's not in a good mood tonight.”
Scott snorted. “Is he ever?”
“Huh.”
Jack Kowalski was Scott's oldest friend on the force. He was the quintessential cop, as ragged and weather-beaten as this old police station, veteran of twenty years on the beat. He didn't take shit from anybody and, if you needed a straight answer and he thought you deserved one, he was the guy to see.
Scott knocked on the office.
“What the fuck is it?” snapped the guy from inside.
Scott grinned. “It's Chapel.”
