Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 4

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Chapter 4

WARNING:  For mature audiences only

HE’D MANAGED TO GET an hour or so of sleep after ramming his cock up the girl’s tight ass a few more times.  He enjoyed fucking dead Black girls.  All of the fun and none of the sass, he thought as he rubbed his hand once more over the girls round firm ass.   She was still soft.  Rigor mortis hadn’t set in yet.

“Mmmm,” he moaned rolling her over and ramming his right hand between her legs.  He rubbed furiously at her clit.  He wanted to see if even in death she’d cum.

He began urging her on.  “Come on.  I know you want to.  Show me you’re still in there.  Show me how I make you cum.”  Insulted that she did not show her appreciation for all of his hard work, he pulled his right hand from between her legs and slammed his balled up fist down hard in the center of her face.

“Whore!” he screamed, releasing his pent-up rage/

“Whore! That’s what you are.  That’s what all of you are!  Whores!”

He wanted to hurl things, throw things, and break things.  But knew better.  The less he touched in the room the easier it would be to clean.   Standing up, he looked down at the dead young Black girl’s body.  At least, he reminded himself, he still had her.

He picked up the girl’s body and threw it violently against the wall.  When it plopped to the floor, he calmly walked over and begin kicking it.  Still not sated, he reached down, grabbed a hand full of the long black human hair weave attached to the young Black girl’s head and started punching her beautiful bronze face until it was unrecognizable.  Emotionally satisficed, he dropped the body back in the middle of the bedroom floor from where he’d retrieve it later.

He was hot and sweaty and smelled of whore.  He needed a shower.  But that was against the rules.  Some of those new detectives down at the Bureau of Detectives actually worked. And he wasn’t about to help them by giving them his DNA.  He kicked the body one last time before retrieving his clothes from the funny looking orange chair beside the bed.   He dressed quietly, casting his eyes over at the lump of flesh on the floor from time to time.  He tied the last loop in his shoe laces and snarled, “Where’d you hide them, bitch?”  The young Black girl gave no answer to his question.

The man got up, slipped on a pair of gloves he kept in his pants pocket and searched the room for her keys.  The apartment door key and the downstairs door key.  He’d need them to get back in and finish his business.

He scanned the top of the dresser.  Nothing.  He pulled open every dresser drawer.  Every single one of them was empty.  Which meant this was a place of business for the girl.  It was not where she lived.  “Ahh,” he sighed aloud.  “Her purse.”  The keys and her phone will be in her purse.  Now, where the hell was her purse?

Then he remembered.  The last time, he’d done this, the whore had hidden her purse where she could get it if there was trouble.  Bathrooms were usually the only rooms with a lock.  He sauntered over to the bathroom, opened the door, and sure enough, there behind a stack of folded towels was a nice pink lady like bag.   “Humph,” he said to himself.  A whore with a lady like bag.  What the hell is this world coming to?”

He rummaged through it, careful not to leave any traces of himself and found what he was looking for.  The keys.

As cool as if he were going out for a summer stroll, he walked out of the room, down the hall, and out the door.

Outside, the sky was a dark navy blue indicating that sunrise was maybe two or three hours away.  He had time.

He walked slowly to his car, a white Buick Encore, that he’d parked around the block, unlocked the truck, and pulled out the Samsonite Winfield 2 Expandable rollaway suitcase he used for these occasions.  There was a reason he liked them petite.

Pulling on a baseball cap and keeping his head down, he made his way back to the apartment building and using the dead young Black girl’s keys, let himself back in.

The lump of flesh was still where he’d left it.  He knew what he had to do.   There was a reason he liked them petit.

First, he pulled the sheets from the bed and placed them on the floor next to the body.  He rolled the dead young Black girl’s body onto the sheets.  Opening the suitcase, he pulled out a turkey baster full of bleach and plunged it into the dead young Black girl’s vagina and squeezed until it was empty.  Then, he stuffed her, the sheets, and the pillow cases into the suitcase.  Satisfied with his work, he put the keys back in her purse and put the purse back where he’d found it.

He did one final check of the apartment, making sure he’d left nothing of himself, and assured that he had not, he left dragging the rollaway suitcase behind him.

He took Indiana Avenue south.  Passing First Unity Baptist Church, he knew he’d escaped the Police Station at 5101 S. Wentworth Avenue.  He didn’t slow down or speed up.  He didn’t even turn his head for a look see.  Instead, he kept going until he reached Cottage Grove Avenue.

He hung a left.  Things were going as planned.  Confident, he took another left onto 64th and stopped when he reached a section of apartment buildings near 65th and South Ingleside Avenue that had a large parking lot which was adjacent to an empty lot.

He parked his car under a large grove of trees.  He had to be careful now, it was getting light outside.  But he wanted to make sure that those leaving for work, early in the morning saw the fire.

He pulled the rollaway suitcase from the back of his car along with a bright red container of gasoline.  His lighter was in his pocket.  He said nothing.

Stooping behind one of the park’s large trash cans, he unzipped the suitcase and lifted the young Black girl’s body out of it and dumped it into the trash can.  He looked down at the sheet covering her naked body and smiled.  He stooped down again, picked up the bright red gasoline container and emptied its contents all over the sheets making sure every inch was saturated.  Then, he closed the suitcase, put the cap back on the container, removed his gasoline soaked gloves, pulled the light from his pocket, flicked it, and tossed it in.  The trash can erupted in flames.

The tall well-dressed solidly built man got back into his car and drove off.

By
Eliza D. Ankum

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 3

https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.com

Chapter 3

WARNING:  For mature audiences only

IT WAS A NICELY DONE working girl’s bedroom.  Nothing too gaudy or too feminine that was off-putting to a man’s desire.  It had everything necessary to complete their transaction.  A king-sized bed.

He’d allowed her to led him in, undress him, fondle and suck on him, before he threw her on the bed and jammed his hot throbbing rod into her black cunt.

“Oh baby, that’s it.  Drive it deeper, faster, harder,” the young Black girl on the bed beneath him yelled.  She was only about seven years older than his daughter, Emma.  He shifted his weight and obeyed.

Her eyes were closed as she ground her pelvis into his pushing her hips up meeting his every downward plunge.

As she began climaxing, he shifted the weight of his body to his left arm and cupped his right hand around her slender bronze throat.  He pressed down hard with all of his strength.  The girl’s eyes popped open.  She began struggling beneath him, not with pleasure but with fear.  The more she struggled, the more excited he became.

Her slender arms and delicate hands pounded against the sides of his naked body.  And when she gored her bright red nails into his back in a desperate attempt to stop him from choking the life out of her, he only became more and more excited, pounding even harder and deeper inside her.

He prayed that the sound proofing in the building was good as he grunted loudly his cumming as the life seeped from the young Black girl.  It was even more exciting cumming inside her as she died.

He stayed on top of her and inside the body of the dead young Black girl, savoring the sensation of her lifeless body.

She’d been soooo good.  He’d have sex with her two or three more times before leaving.

He pulled out of her, rolled over onto his back, and stared up at the ceiling wondering what the fellas back at work would think of him if they knew.

By
Eliza D. Ankum

 

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 2

https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.com

Chapter 2

WARNING: For mature audiences only

THE YOUNG BLACK GIRL – a real stunner, in his opinion, with deep brown skin that shimmered like polished bronze in the glow of the apartment’s soft lights.  She was petite – no more than five-two – with a slim figure.  Just the way he like them.

When she’d opened the door, she’d smiled at him with a mouth full of perfectly white and perfectly aligned teeth that he was sure one of her other customers had foolishly laid out a giant wad of cash to get them done for her. Or, perhaps, he thought, one of her other clients was a dentist.

Hmmm, he thought, dwelling on the idea of what that rich, generous client would think about the work he was going to do on her tonight.

In that melty chocolatey voice that most women of her kind have, she said, “Come on in, sweetie.  I’ve been waiting anxiously for you.”

No, he thought, you haven’t.  But, he knew better.  He couldn’t allow her to see the beast, yet.

“Can I fix you a drink?”

“Yes,” he mumbled, following her down the short narrow hallway that led into a large living room that had floor to ceiling windows that offered up a view of downtown Chicago’s skyscrapers and Lake Michigan.  No wonder she had cost so much.  One thousand for the entire night.  She or her pimp had to pay the rent on this sucker.

He thought about his humble little three-bedroom house back in Beverly with its small fenced-in backyard.  The only view it offered was a view of his neighbor, Stanley’s, backyard.  And of his two teenage boys – Logan, 14 and Oliver, 16.  And how they had to share a bedroom so that their younger sister, Emma, who was 12, and on her way to becoming a woman, had the privacy she needed.   And here was this Black whore, living like this!

When the young Black girl bent over a glass and gold bar cart to pour him a drink, she gave him a look at her well rounded, generous behind.  He thought about his wife, Grace.

Grace was warm, loving, thoughtful, and in some ways, sexy as hell.  And she thought the world of him, and truthfully, would have done anything for him.  She loved him, and he knew it.

There was just one problem.  With her blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin, she didn’t do for him what he needed.  She didn’t get his Johnson hard.

At home, he was a limp dick unless he fantasized about the raunchy black bitches he saw walking the streets.  Or he closed his eyes and played back in his head what he’d done to the other whores he’d had.  Same things he was going to do to this Black whore tonight.  Tomorrow night, he could make love to Grace.

Desire flared in him.  He reached out and stroked the young Black girl’s firm rounded ass.

“Oh, sweetie, you’re ready to go aren’t you?” the girl cooed.  Turning to him she ran her shimmery bronzed hand over the rock hard white bulge at the front of his pants.

“Ooooh.  That’s a pretty good sized one you got there sweetie.  Why don’t we go on into the bedroom and you let me play with him for a while?  I might even suck him.”

“Yes.  Why don’t we do that,” he answered, his voice husky with lust.”

“Good.  I can’t wait to ride him. Hard.”

By
Eliza D. Ankum

 

 

Discreet Detective Agency – Chapter 1

https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.com

Chapter 1

Warning:  For mature audiences only

THE TALL, WELL DRESSED, solidly built man scouted the hallway of the upscale apartment building located near South Indiana Avenue and East Hyde Park Blvd.  His work and personal cell phones had been turned off and safely stashed in a Faraday Cage in the trunk of his car.  A white Buick Encore.

He pulled an anonymous cell phone, which he used for just such occasions, from his jacket pocket and began scanning the apartment building’s unit numbers for the apartment number in the ad he’d pulled off the escort service’s internet page.

Finding the right unit, he paused outside the door letting the wave of excitement, regarding what he was about to do to the occupant of the apartment, wash over him.  Excited yet calm, he knocked on the door.  The burgundy painted door swung open before he could knock a third time.

The girl, as promised by the ad, was young, petite, very pretty with a shapely slim figure, and a gorgeous smile.  Even more importantly, she was African American.  Black.  She had to be.  It’s what got his juices going.  He’d had enough of white bread.  He needed something spicier.

All day long he saw them.  Watched them as they swung their amply rounded asses back and forth across the streets of his city.  Low cut tank tops with no bras and short denim shorts worn without the benefit of underwear.  Their chocolate brown sweaty skin glistening in the hot Chicago summer air that smelled of reefer and Jew-town polish sausages.

By
Eliza D. Ankum

 

 

 

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 19

https://mrpresident.wordpress.com

Chapter 19

THIS IS CHANNEL 4 NEWS Washington, DC.  And my name is Peter Rawlings and we’re coming on the air to bring you an update on a story we told you about earlier this evening. Continue reading

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 17

https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com

Chapter 17

RUYAH LAID DOWN on the elegant king-sized Embassy bed and allowed the tears she’d been holding back for the last few hours of her old life to flow. Continue reading

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 16

https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com

Chapter 16

RICK KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG. Very wrong. Ruyah wasn’t in his head and all he heard were the usual hotel sounds; the TV, snoring, couples arguing, and couples moaning in ecstasy. But still, something wasn’t right. Continue reading

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 5

https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com

Chapter 5

“MISSY, MY LOVE, I’m afraid we’re going to have to continue this at another time,” Stone said, helping Missy to extricate herself from beneath his authentic replica of John F. Kennedy’s famous Oval Office desk.  The one with the famous picture of John-John hiding in it.

As soon as Missy had redressed and left, Stone sat alone in the Oval Office, chewing on the news Malcolm had just delivered.  The likely death of former President Noah Daniels

He tucked in his shirt, re-zipped his trousers, and padded back over to the room’s hidden bar and poured himself another drink.  He was conflicted as to how he should feel. A former President and a good man was dead.  But honestly, all he felt was relief.

It had been Daniel’s arrogance that had put him in the White House.  Something that he could have never done on his own.

He was aware of what the American people thought of him.  He knew that most political insiders had thought that he was a joke.  A clown.  A reality star who’d lost his grip on reality. And that most Americans, his wife included, figured he wasn’t capable of handling the job.   And that at some point – after he’d made some God awful mistake, like Zhamis had – that he’d realize it and relinquish the Presidency back to someone with political experience who knew what they were doing, like Noah Daniels.  Taking a sip of his drink, he laughed aloud at that, thinking, The now disgraced and very dead Noah Daniels, he laughed again, with a smile.

But, where the hell was that girl, Ruyah bin Caneer?  And how much had Daniels told her?

He crossed back over to the desk where he and Missy and been enjoying themselves – he could still smell her perfume – and pulled the Red phone from the bottom desk drawer.

He’d dialed six of the eleven numbers of his foreign collaborator in all of this, then stopped.

It crossed his mind that the man was dangerous even when he wasn’t being pushed for answers.  And trying to get the information he wanted to know out of him, would surely irritate him.  The man, and his brother, were a set of power hungry psychopaths bent on worldwide manipulation. And in the past few months, he’d come to understand that there was not a trace of empathy in them for their fellow man, foreign or domestic.  All that mattered was what they wanted.

Stone disconnected the call and put the Red phone back in the bottom desk drawer.  He eased back in his big leather Presidential chair and thought for a few minutes; going over the least hazardous options.  The only sound in the room was the ticking of the clock on the wall.

He leaned forward, and once again, pulled the bottom drawer of this authentic replica of John F. Kennedy’s desk open and fumbled in back of the Red phone and pulled out a burner phone – one he’d bought long before becoming a candidate for the Presidency, in order to keep in touch with his extramarital sex partners – and dialed Demyan Zakharov’s number.

“Demyan!  What’s going on?  My man just came back and he tells me that the job is only half done.  I thought we had a deal.  Daniels and that wretched girl, dead, and you get to become an American citizen, and your handlers get to continue raping Syria.  What the hell happened?  Malcolm tells me that there was no sign of that insufferable terrorist bitch’s body.”

 

By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Flight 404 – A Novel of Aviation Disaster
Ruby Sanders (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 1)
Jared Anderson (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 2)
Ruby and Jared (The Ruby and Jared saga Book 3)
OneThreeThirteen – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1
The Hunt For Red November  A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2
Dancing With The Fat Woman
Thou Shalt Eat Dust – A Second Chance Love Story
Eleanor Grunsback – An Ugly Woman’s Love Story
https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com
A Woman’s Voice: A Little Book of Poems
STALKED! By Voices
A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth
https://mystalkingblog.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 4

https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com

Chapter 4

MALCOLM MAVIS WALKED slowly down the hall on his way to the Oval Office.   He was taking his time; giving the two headache tablets he’d taken as soon as his vehicle had entered the underground parking area, time to work.  He had to tell the President the news.

It was nine o’clock, on a Saturday night.  The First Lady, Jadona Stone was, from reports he’d received, solidly entrenched in her East Wing office with a double vodka and Sprite.  So, it was highly probable that Majken Gustafson, aka Missy, Stone’s personal secretary, was face down in the President’s lap.

Therefore, Mavis took a moment to ready himself, for what he was about to witness, before he knocked lightly on the wood framed steel core door.

“Come in,” yelled a familiar voice.

There was a slight rustle of fabric and clearing of throats as Mavis entered.  He hated this.  Missy, on her knees under the Kennedy desk made Mavis uncomfortable, but he knew Stone reveled in it.

“Was it him?” President Stone asked.

“Before I answer that, Mr. President, could you please ask Ms. Gustafson to come from under the desk?  I think we’re going to need some privacy.”

“I can’t think what for,” replied. Stone.  “If it’s him, he’s dead.  So he can’t object one way or the other to us discussing him and Missy hearing it.  And if he’s not, he’s still a traitor on the run with a terrorist who’s committed some really terrible acts against this country.  So, what does it matter?”

Mavis drew in a quick breath, and then answered, “Yes, Mr. President.  Marlene Loudoun, the Director of the FBI, is sure it’s him.  But she’s waiting on DNA tests before announcing it to the Press.”

“Well, that gives us something to celebrate,” President Stone said, reaching down and pushing Missy’s mouth off his penis before zipping up his pants and standing up and walking over to the fully stocked bar he’d had installed in the Oval Office.

“Join me for a drink, Malcolm?”

“No sir, I still have a lot of work to do.”

“That’s a shame, Malcolm.  I’d think with Noah Daniels dead, you’d have one less thing to worry about.”

“We still don’t know the whereabouts of Ruyah al-Basir, sir. Whether she’s alive, wounded, or dead.  And neither do we know the whereabouts of that damn machine of hers.”

“That’s true,” Stone said, his eyes boring into Malcolm’s.

Mavis note the little uplift at the sides of President’s Stone’s mouth.  Sometimes, there was a hint of malicious understanding in a man that he considered crazy as a loon – as would most of Americans – if they knew the man the way he did.

“But then, again, she can’t get out of the country without my say so.  Can she,” answered Stone.

“No, sir.  She can’t.”

“Let’s keep it that way.  When you go back to your office, put the DOD on high alert.  No Muslims admitted into the country, at all.  And those leaving, must show up-to-date and accurate IDs.  Otherwise, they’re to be arrested and detained until the DOD can assure me that none of them are fronting for that al-Basir woman.

“But sir.”

“And I don’t want any of their asses admitted back into this country.”

“Sir, that’s against the law,” responded Mavis.

“I’m the law,” Stone said, shooting him that same look, again.

What had he done, Mavis thought, helping to get this man elected President.

 

By
Eliza D. Ankum
Author of
Flight 404 – A Novel of Aviation Disaster
Ruby Sanders (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 1)
Jared Anderson (The Ruby and Jared Saga Book 2)
Ruby and Jared (The Ruby and Jared saga Book 3)
OneThreeThirteen – A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 1
The Hunt For Red November  A Presidential Agent Novel Series Book 2
Dancing With The Fat Woman
Thou Shalt Eat Dust – A Second Chance Love Story
Eleanor Grunsback – An Ugly Woman’s Love Story
https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com
A Woman’s Voice: A Little Book of Poems
STALKED! By Voices
A Tiny Kitten With A Big Mouth
https://mystalkingblog.wordpress.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mr. President 2016 – Chapter 3

https://mrpresident2016.wordpress.com

Chapter 3

DEMYAN ZAKHAROV, Special Forces Agent for the GRU, the Russian military intelligence agency, stood a ways away from the chaotic scene unfolding on the other side of the Potomac, smoking a Belomorkanal papirosa cigarette laced with a touch of marijuana. Continue reading