pulp noir

It gets hot as a three-cent wheat in the city this time of year. I flicked the switch for the ceiling fan and nothing happened. Evidently, I hadn't dutched up for the electricity ticket. Or maybe it was on the nut. Either way, I'd been losing a whole lot of scratch at the bangtails and my secretary had walked out on Tuesday because a month had passed and she hadn't seen as much as a dime. My tongue had gotten so pooped, trying to keep that dame sweet, that, for a couple of days at least, it felt like I was constantly chewing on a softball. I set up in this town figuring there was more than enough sleaze to go around, but I guess I was wrong. I needed a gig and I needed it fast.

I opened the window. The burning city squealed like a wet cat in a brown paper bag. Like I said, it was hot, so I undid my silk blouse in the hope a little breeze would cool my cans, but the stinking urban air was as thick and greasy as an old slice of grandma's meatloaf. I took a butt from a deck of Luckies and lit it; held it in my lips as I undid the zip on the back of my skirt and let it fall like a sack of doorknobs. I was going to lose the garter belt too, but I was in the habit of wearing my panties over the suspenders, so I decided to breeze it, seeing as the deal was a little behind the eight-ball and such. I was just about to head for the little girls' room and wipe the sweat from my peachy keyster when he walked in.

I greeted him with a gunman's salute and made a click with my tongue. He took that as a cue to take a seat and fire up a gasper for hisself. Right off I clocked more bread then brains if his natty pinstriped glad rags and polished wingtips were anything to go by. I always knew a sucker when I saw one, and I'd already decided that I was going to ride this goose for twenty-five a day plus expenses - I was counting on pulling in at least a couple of C's and it was going to be duck soup. I offered him a snort. He declined, but I sure wasn't about to. I poured three fingers into a lowball and told him to make with the sob-story.

He started into some two-bit beef about his runaround frau. To tell you the truth, I'd heard them all, and even the first time was a bore. So, we bumped gums and I gave him the lay. It didn't take a genius to crab what kind of chin was going through the boob's conk as this chippy dame stood before him in her smalls. I got him to agree to half the mazuma up front even before I sent my panties packing to the floor. I straddled his lap and made straight for his fly. [undoing pants] Now, I know I'm a dish of a doll, a real tomato, so I wasn't surprised to find some real stiff meat. The skinny was that I was going to put the Chinese squeeze on this peg till he ponied up the yoghurt, and I was going to do it well. I sank to my knees between his gams and wrapped my sweet kisser around that fat lunker...

[blowjobbin' sounds from here on out, breaking off here and there for the following lines, then returning to blowing, if you get my meaning – the lines are designed to be interspersed at intervals:]

1) The gink was struggling to pull the wind into his pipes and his chest heaved like a beached narwhal as I chowed down good and hard on that leaking dingus...

2) I get a real kick out of buttering a bean-shooter, and this time was no different...

3) I knew I had the bulge when the cat started squirming in his chair like a hood getting the third degree. I wasn't sure if he was going to throw a joe...

4) Shining this mug's roscoe was all silk so far; I was hoping he didn't have too much swift as I started tightening the screws...

5) If this sap was fixing to blow his gooch in my yap, he was tooting up the wrong ringer. I decided to clam up and put the piston on that jimmy...

[handjobbing now]

6) I told him to quit being such a bunny and make with the sauce as I gazed up at him. I figured I'd let him throw his goof-paste right up into my gorgeous pan...

[facial]

And that's the crop. I told him I'd get started right away, pinned on my diapers and gave him the bum's rush. Then I poured a stiff hooker into a hip flask, thinking I could slip a little mickey into a hot cup of joe at the hash house around the corner...