https://discreetdetectiveagency.wordpress.com

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 64^th and stopped when he reached a section of apartment buildings near 65^th 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

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

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