Sin in the City of Angels

by Callista Hawkes

  “It sure is.” You chuckle. She smiles and shrugs before resuming bouncing up and down on your lap. You moan with delight, the interruption quickly forgotten as you both work towards your imminent climaxes. Paige gets there moments before you do, her body stiffening, her mouth dropping open before letting out a shrill moan of pleasure as she bucks on top of you. Her pussy quivers around your cock and you slam up inside her one last time before your balls twitch and your come races up your shaft to explode deep inside her. You grasp her hips, holding her shuddering body against yours as you both gasp and pant in the throes of ecstasy. As your climaxes subside and you pump the last of your seed inside her, Paige leans forward and kisses you tenderly for a moment. Pulling away, she climbs gingerly off you, pulling her panties back in place and straightening her skirt before reaching for her bra and blouse. You lean back in your chair and watch her get dressed before getting to your feet and slipping your softening cock back inside your slacks. Wandering over to the window, you look out at the street below as you button up your shirt.

  “It looks a bit cooler out there now.” You comment. “If you hurry, you should be able to get to the Public records office in time.”

  “What?!” Paige replies. “I thought… we just…”

  “That was nice and all, but I still need you to do your job.” You tell her, turning to face her.

  “Why you son of a bitch!” She tells you indignantly. You shrug and watch as she storms from the room.

  Continue

  “Why dontcha get those talented lips around it?” You suggest with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin.

  “Sure, Sam.” She smiles, dropping to her knees before you. She gazes at your length for a moment, her fingers still wrapped around it, before dipping her head down into your lap and taking it into her mouth. You groan as you feel the moist warmth of her tongue swirl around the tip before her lips slide down your shaft.

  “Damn, that feels good!” You groan, lacing your fingers through her dark hair. She mews contentedly, quickly finding a rhythm, her head bobbing up and down in your lap. Most dames in L.A. seemed reluctant to engage in a little fellatio, regarding it a perversion. Even less would consider performing it to completion, so Paige was certainly a good sport! You watch enthralled as her full lips glide up and down your saliva slick shaft, your cock nudging the back of her throat as she takes you deeply inside. You can feel your balls beginning to tighten as she brings you rapidly towards your climax.

  “I’m gettin’ close.” You warn her, though she’s never shied away before. Indeed, if anything, she quickens her pace. You grip the chair’s armrests as Paige brings you to the brink, groaning as you anticipate spilling your seed into her grateful mouth. At that moment, you hear the familiar click of stiletto heels approaching your door. Mrs Vandergraaf is returning!

  Pull Paige to her feet and quickly button yourselves up

  Conceal Paige under the desk

  “Quickly, get dressed.” You hiss, pulling Paige’s head from your lap. She glances up at you mystified before her eyes widen as she too hears the approaching footsteps. You both hurriedly button up your clothes just as Viola Vandergraaf’s silhouette fills the frosted glass of the door. You slide forward, concealing your exposed erection beneath the desk just as the door swings open.

  “Mr Harlowe…” She begins before spotting Paige, who stands awkwardly beside your desk, blushing furiously.

  “My assistant.” You explain coolly. “What can I do for you Mrs Vandergraaf?”

  “I’ve returned with my checkbook.” She explains. “I’ll write out a check for five hundred dollars. You’ll let me know when that amount is exhausted?”

  “Of course.” You grin as she sits before your desk and writes out a check, her handwriting as immaculate as her make-up. She glances up at Paige a couple of times, clearly sensing she has returned at an inopportune moment, but unable to discern why. She signs the check and tears it out, sliding it across the desk to you.

  “Thanks.” You smile.

  “Good day Mr Harlowe.” Viola smiles thinly. “Miss.” She nods to Paige before leaving your office. As her footsteps fade, Paige glances at you and smirks.

  “Now, where were we?” She smiles, beginning to unbutton her blouse again.

  “I think the moment has passed.” You tell her, getting to your feet and slipping your softened cock back inside your slacks. “Some other time eh?”

  “But Sam, I need you!” She protests.

  “What I need, sweetheart, is your shapely little derriere down at the Public records office.” Her eyes narrow. You move towards her and reach out, your hand caressing her cheek. “I’ll make it up to you doll, I promise.” You flash her a roguish smile and her expression softens.

  “You’d better.” She purrs before heading for the door.

  Continue

  “Someone’s coming.” You tell Paige, pulling her lips from your cock.

  “Yeah, you in another five seconds.” She purrs.

  “I’m serious!” You tell her, buttoning up your shirt. “Quick, get under the desk.” Hearing the footsteps just outside the door, her eyes widen and she slides backwards beneath the desk. You push your chair forward just as the door swings open.

  “Mrs Vandergraaf.” You smile. “Back already.” You flinch as you feel Paige’s hand close around your shaft.

  “I just returned with my checkbook to pay my dues.” She replies, looking at you strangely as you flinch again as you feel the warmth of Paige’s mouth envelop the tip of your cock. You feel her head beginning to bob up and down, the impending climax that had subsided now rapidly building again. You let out an involuntary gasp.

  “Are you quite well, Mr Harlowe?” Viola asks. “You seem a little flushed.”

  “It’s just this damn heat.” You groan as Paige continues to pleasure you, her lips gliding up and down your saliva slick length. “I shoulda set up my business in Chicago or New York.” Viola nods and pulls her checkbook from her purse. She leans forward and begins to write out the check, her hand just the thickness of a desk from Paige’s bobbing head. You can feel the come boiling in your balls as you desperately try to stave off your climax.

  “I’ll write out a check for five hundred dollars.” Viola tells you. “You’ll let me know when that amount is exhausted?”

  “Of course.” You grunt through gritted teeth, Paige softly sucking on the tip of your cock as you teeter on the brink.

  “And who shall I make the check out to?” Viola asks, her blue eyes flicking up from the checkbook.

  “Harlowe Investigations.” You gasp as you feel your balls twitch and your come race up your shaft to erupt into Paige’s mouth. Her lips close tightly around the tip and you grasp the edge of the desk, biting your lower lip to silence your grunts of ecstasy as your cock spurts again and again into Paige’s sucking mouth. Your body shudders involuntarily as a powerful climax consumes you.

  “Mr Harlowe!” Viola exclaims, her eyes filled with fear. “Are you having a seizure?!”

  “My pills, my pills.” You gasp, pointing vaguely across the room, before letting out a satisfying groan of pleasure just as Viola climbs from her chair and rifles through a tall closet opposite.

  “I can’t find them!” She panics as Paige sucks the last of your seed from your twitching cock, your climax subsiding.

  “It’s alright, it’s alright.” You tell her breathlessly, Paige pulling her lips from your softening member and gulping down the mouthful of come. “The moment has passed. I’m okay.”

  “You really should see a doctor.” Viola tells you sternly.

  “It’s a condition I’ve been living with for a few years.” You tell her. “Heart palpitations is all.”

  “That makes two of us, Mr Harlowe!” Viola scolds you before finishing writing her check and taking her leave. As her footsteps fade, you pull back your chair and Paige emerges from underneath your desk, grinning broadly. You both burst into laughter.

  “Damn well did nearly
give me a heart attack.” You chuckle.

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.” Paige grins, buttoning her blouse back up.

  Continue

  The next morning, you study the records that Paige had eventually retrieved. Viola Vandergraaf, born 1923, which makes her twenty-six. Four years younger than her husband Neville Vandergraaf who is the heir to the Vandergraaf fortune. Sure makes sense he’d rather not pay any alimony. There’s a grainy photo of him in his file. You wrinkle your nose.

  “Good looking son of a bitch.” You mutter to yourself. “Rich, handsome and married to a beautiful woman. Some guys get all the luck.” Tossing the photo to one side, you run through his background. Private school education, Ivy league college, draft avoidance during World War Two (Conveniently coinciding with a hefty family donation to the war effort) followed by a couple of years enjoying a playboy lifestyle, burning through his trust fund before marriage to Viola in 1944. No children. No legal issues: Not even a parking ticket or speeding fine. So far so boring. You check the address. One of the big mansions up on Mulholland Drive, home of the rich and famous.

  “Nice neighborhood.” You murmur. Perhaps it’s time to put to use that undercover training you’d learned working for the OSS during the war. The Office of Strategic Services had you placed in Nazi Germany a few months before the US joined the party. You’d done good work and secured valuable intelligence, rising to the rank of major. Then, once the gloves had come off, you’d been enlisted by the US Army. Commanding a small team, you’d parachuted in behind enemy lines and carried out some vital mischief during the Normandy invasion and the liberation of Paris. Not that it mattered when the war was done and Uncle Sam put you out to pasture. Still, as you pour yourself a glass of whiskey and neck it, being your own boss has its advantages.

  You step out into the street, grimacing up at the cloudless blue sky and hot sun. With L.A. in the middle of an August heat wave, the soaring temperature is already stifling and oppressive. You pull the brim of your hat low over your eyes and cross the road to your maroon Buick Roadmaster. You’d bought it in ‘46 having instantly fallen in love with its polished curvaceous bodywork, the gleaming chrome grille and fenders and the muscular growl of its engine. You’d parked in the shade and climb into the driver’s seat, glad to be out of the sun. You fire up the engine and pull out into the road, weaving through the downtown traffic as you drive northwest towards the Hollywood hills. As you leave the city behind you, climbing up the hillside, you glance up at the Hollywood sign high above. Still seems a little strange without the ‘land’ at the end since the city had taken it down a couple of months earlier. You climb the steep, winding road before taking a left onto Mulholland Drive. You drive slowly, passing huge gates on the right, all the houses set back from the road. You finally arrive at the Vandergraaf residence and park out front. Climbing out of the car, you take in the view, the whole city of Los Angeles spread out before you.

  “Hell of a view.” You growl before turning to the wrought iron gates of the house. As you approach the gates, you hear the rumble of a car. You step back out of sight as the gates swing open and a luxurious limousine rolls past you. You spot Viola Vandergraaf sitting in the back as it passes before turning left and accelerating along Mulholland Drive in the direction of L.A. You pause for a moment, wondering whether to follow her and look for any sign of an attempt on her life or continue with your plan and speak to her husband.

  Follow Viola Vandergraaf

  Speak to Mr Vandergraaf

  You approach the gates, noticing a slightly pretentious “V” worked into the ironwork. Deciding to impersonate an insurance company representative, you ring the bell and moments later a butler wanders down from the house.

  “Can I help you sir?” He asks warily.

  “My name is Mr Brent.” You reply. “I’m from Mr Vandergraaf’s insurance broker. I need to speak to Mr Vandergraaf urgently.” You flash your ID before slipping it back into your pocket before he has a chance to read it properly.

  “One moment sir.” He tells you, hurrying back to the house before returning a few moments later and opening the gates. “This way sir.” He smiles thinly.

  You follow the butler up the long driveway to the house, neatly pruned rose bushes lining each side. As you reach the house, your gaze is drawn to a striking silver sports car sitting outside. An Aston Martin DB1 if you’re not mistaken. A beautiful car. The house itself is a large two story whitewashed building with a grand entrance with a balcony just above it. You follow the butler inside, your footsteps on the marble tiled floor echoing around the entrance hall. The interior is just as lavish with obscene wealth almost dripping off the walls.

  “Please wait here sir.” The butler tells you before climbing a broad staircase up to the top floor. You hear his muffled voice a moment later and an equally muffled reply from presumably Neville Vandergraaf. A couple of minutes later, you hear footsteps on the stairs and Vandergraaf appears. Tall, tanned, his dark hair slicked back and wearing beige slacks, a light blue short sleeved linen shirt and a confident grin. He looks just as he did in his photo and you’d grudgingly admit he’s a handsome son of a bitch.

  “Good morning Mr Brent.” He beams, extending his hand. “What can I do for you?”

  “Just a few routine questions sir.” You reply, shaking him firmly by the hand.

  “I’d normally leave insurance questions to my lawyers.” He frowns, knitting his eyebrows.

  “It will just be a few minutes Mr Vandergraaf.” You smile.

  “I guess I can spare five minutes or so.” He replies, the grin returning. “Carstairs!” He calls to his butler. “We’ll sit by the pool. Bring us some lemonade will you.” You follow Vandergraaf through the house, emerging back into the sunshine at the rear. The immaculately kept gardens surround a large rectangular pool with a diving board at the far end. Sun loungers beneath umbrella canopies line one side while Vandergraaf leads you to a table and chairs on the opposite side.

  “This is quite a place, Mr Vandergraaf.” You tell him.

  “Thank you.” He replies, gesturing for you to take a seat. The butler, Carstairs appears moments later with a silver tray with a jug of lemonade and two tall glasses filled with ice. He pours you both a drink and departs without a word.

  “So, what do you need to ask me?” Vandergraaf asks, his smile vanishing and his expression earnest. You pull a notebook out of your jacket pocket and make a show of studying it as you decide what to ask him.

  Ask him a few questions regarding his marriage

  Ask him a few questions regarding his wealth

  “Just to confirm for our records, what is your current personal wealth?” You ask Vandergraaf. He blows out his cheeks.

  “Now you’re asking.” He grins. “You’d do better asking my accountant.”

  “An estimation?” You persist.

  “Somewhere north of twelve million dollars.” He replies. You whistle. “It’s not as much as it sounds.” He chuckles. “Most of that is tied up in stocks, bonds and properties.”

  “Now, I apologize for asking this sir, but in the unlikely event of your untimely death, your wife would inherit this fortune?”

  “She would.” He nods. “My personal fortune. The family fortune would pass to my younger brother.”

  “And what if your marriage was to end in divorce?” You ask. Vandergraaf squirms uncomfortably and you push a little harder. “Presumably you have some form of prenuptial agreement contract?”

  “No, no.” He replies quietly, tensing up. “My wife would be eligible for half of my personal fortune.”

  “I’m sorry sir, but I had to ask for insurance purposes.” You smile. “I’m quite sure you are happily married and devoted to each other.”

  “Quite so.” He smiles uncomfortably, leaning forward and taking a sip from his glass. “Was there anything else Mr Brent?”

  Ask him about his marriage

  That’s all you need for now

  “I just nee
d to confirm a few personal details if I may.” You reply. “How long have you been married?” Vandergraaf knits his eyebrows for a moment.

  “Viola and I have been married for five years now.”

  “Any dependents?”

  “Not yet.” He replies, taking a sip of his lemonade.

  “Needless to say, your marriage is in excellent health sir?” You ask taking a drink yourself and studying him over the rim of the glass. His smile falters for a split second before he quickly regains his composure.

  “Of course.” He replies. You nod before making a show of checking a blank page in your notebook.

  “I believe that neither you nor your wife have life insurance at this time.” You tell him, looking up.

  “We don’t?” He replies, his forehead furrowing.

  “That something you might be interested in?” You ask, carefully studying his reaction.

  “Well, I guess these are uncertain times.” He shrugs casually. “You’d better send me over the forms and I’ll make sure we’re covered.”

  “I’ll do that, sir.” You nod. The son of a bitch would be a good poker player.

  “Was there anything else I can help you with Mr Brent?” Vandergraaf asks.

  Ask him about his finances

  No, that should be enough

  “No,” You smile, closing your notebook. “I think I have everything I came for. Thank you for your time Mr Vandergraaf.”

  “My pleasure Mr Brent.” He replies as you both rise from your chairs. You shake him by the hand and turn to leave.

  “I’ll show myself out.” You tell him.

  As the butler closes the door behind you, you stand in the shade and reach for your cigarettes. As you take in a deep lungful of smoke, you consider your conversion. There’s certainly no love lost in that marriage and Vandergraaf’s a cool customer. Still, that doesn’t make him a murderer. Maybe Viola Vandergraaf is just a paranoid rich broad after all. You hear the rumble of an automobile engine as Viola’s limousine returns, swinging in past the wrought iron gates and gliding up the drive towards the house. She climbs out of the car, looking resplendent in an elegant yellow summer dress and high heeled shoes.