Contrary to popular belief, being a private detective is not glamorous. Most of my work involves marital disputes or proving infidelity. Not being a balding older male with a shabby raincoat helps, as no-one suspects a young and, so I’m told, attractive female, to be in my line of business.
It does have its temptations, as quite often the subject of my investigation is extremely hot and gaining the right evidence can make me very horny and frustrated, yearning for a piece of the action that plays out through my lens or the video footage I collect with my extensive kit of video and sound recording gear.
Last week, I was on yet another case of a wife suspecting her husband of having an affair and wanting proof to help her get a good deal in the divorce court. I had followed the target and overhead him book a hotel room for that afternoon.
Pretending to be his wife I found the room number and, convincing a room-service maid to let me into the room, I left a tiny camera that would broadcast any action for me to collect nearby; I wouldn’t try to pick up the camera once the job was done.
Sitting in the car in the pouring rain for hours waiting for him to check in was soul-destroying. I’d completed a crossword and a super-fiendish su doku and read three chapters of my book. Just when I was thinking of calling it a day, through the audio link, I heard a door slam.
Pressing record on my system, I watched with more interest and the hope that he was a one-minute wonder if he was up to no good so I could go home. No such luck, or wow what luck depending on your point of view.
This guy was handsome and having trailed him already, I knew that he would be in my fantasies, at least until the next one came along. But the girl that followed him into the room was absolutely stunning. She was tall, elegant and expensively dressed.
The envelope he handed over to her confirmed my unkind thoughts, while wondering if his wife would be more forgiving of him paying for the sex he perhaps wasn’t getting at home, rather than falling in love with someone else.
All thoughts went out of my mind as I watched her secrete the envelope in her purse, not checking the contents, which told me they had done this before, and she trusted him. Kicking off her shoes, she turned and waited as he approached her, unzipping the dress at the back and letting it fall to the floor.
I stopped breathing and waited. Motionless for a while, he stood and stared at the beautiful tanned body in front of him, the expensive underwear before his eyes froze on her beautiful bottom, perfectly displayed by the thong that divided her mouth-watering arse cheeks.
He ran the back of his index finger slowly down her back, and she visibly shivered in response; natural or professional didn’t matter to me, and almost certainly to him too. Unclipping her bra, he let it fall to the floor and moved in close behind her, wrapping his arms around her front and cupping her breasts. She tilted her head back in response and they kissed.
Moving to the bed, he stood as she undressed him, and I watched in awe as his boxers were finally removed and his manhood bounced into the open, bobbing in the air as if seeking a target, which I guess is exactly what it was doing.
She turned and bent over the bed so he could remove her thong. Sinking to his knees, my target showed for the camera that he was an arse man at heart. With enormous reverence, he hooked two fingers into the waistband of her thong and pulled it down and off, taking a moment to relish its scent, before casting it aside and placing his hands on each cheek of her bum.
I had to reposition the trousers I was wearing as I was getting very turned on by what I was witnessing, and my knickers were cutting into my soaking pussy. I put a hand inside to sort out the discomfort, taking the opportunity to rub my clit a few times, enough to take me close, but also not too much so that I could claim to myself that I remain professional at all times.
Back to the action. I knew I shouldn’t record the whole evening or night’s event to provide the proof, but I did need to see them fuck as I had once stopped too early in the process, only for the target to claim, like Bill Clinton, that he ‘didn’t have sex with that woman.’ Like hell, he didn’t!
To my delight, the scene I was able to capture was him taking her from behind. My camera was off-centre and so perfectly placed to see his cock slipping perfectly, if condom-covered, into her wet snatch. Natural wet or professionally prepared wet, again mattered to neither of us, as slipping in perfectly, he did.
To this point, nothing had been said but now the voices became clear through my microphone. “My God, the view from here …” he said as he pounded her pussy. “That’s it,” she replied, “keep that up, I love it!”
I keep a small towel in my car to dry the windows and slipped it under my bottom as I was sure I was soaked through and didn’t want to stain the seat. ‘Nearly there,’ I thought, then I can go home and deal with this.
Turning back to the small screen, I watched as he approached what would probably be his first cum of the night. My eyes flicked between the sight of his cock appearing and disappearing and the gorgeous globes of the escort’s arse.
I’ve never understood men who like to cum anywhere but where nature intended, or women who like to be sprayed with cum for the same reason, but just as I was expecting those glorious final animalistic strokes with the accompanying groans, he pulled out, whipped off the condom, and with a couple of stokes with his hand, sprayed an impressive load right up her back, with two aftershocks landing on her buttocks.
He collapsed on the bed while the escort got up and I assume went to the bathroom to clean up. She returned shortly afterwards and lay beside him as he rested. This was all I needed, at least professionally, but my personal needs could only be dealt with at home.
After that, I needed a good fucking, but my boyfriend, Mike, was out with his mates and wouldn’t be back until late. Needing a release of some sort, I decided to dedicate my evening to myself. I ran a bath, poured a glass of wine and with some candles lit, wallowed in the hot water, sipping the wine and thinking about what I would do to myself before Mike got home.
As the water cooled, I got out, dried myself and went into my bedroom. The heating had been on and it was beautifully warm, so I got out my favourite vibe and lay back on the bed, ready for action, all my senses buzzing even without the vibe, in over-eager anticipation.
Lying back on the bed, I started to get mentally into the zone, an important precursor to self-pleasure. As my mind wandered, I thought I heard something. Sitting up, I realised the sound was coming through the wall from my neighbours; they were having sex!
‘Perhaps the day will end well after all,’ I thought, and strolled, still naked to my box of tricks and found the clever device that records conversation, and anything else going on, through a wall. It works well and would make my masturbation session so much more pleasurable.
I put the receiver against the wall, plugged my headphones into the other socket and tied a silk scarf around my head so I had no sight and could concentrate totally on the sound of what was happening next door and nothing else.