“You are familiar, I take it, with the missing beads?”
“Indeed.”
“Any guesses where they might have landed?”
“Didn’t know they flew anywhere. Unh. Keep that fuck going in my rump.”
“You knew where the pearls were kept?”
“Pump. Yes. Oh, pump.”
“Where?”
“Unh. In Constance’s chest of drawers. In her bedroom. Oh, gawddamnit. Fuck.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck my asshole hard. Harder!”
“In her drawers?”
“In-unh-with-unh-her-unh-lingerie. Oh, please. Fuck my ass some more. Break my fucking buns. Just fuck-fuck-fuck me.”
“Did everybody know where she kept those things?”
“Just a couple of her friends.”
“Real close ones, huh? Like you and Morrigana. Her girlfriends. Any men?”
“Oh, Jee-susss! It’s so yummy with your dick up my ass to my tummy. So Morrigana knew too? Figures. Morrigana’s so nosy. How the flick should I know whether Constance told any dudes?”
Griffith corkscrewed his cock deeper into Veronica’s easygoing asshole.
He tugged her jugs as she pressed her cold assmeat into his belly.
Veronica winced.
Bouncing like jelly.
“Shit,” Veronica gagged. “I’m dead.”
Fission of senses streaked through her head. She heard colors. Saw sounds.
Orgasm caressed her brain.
Blowhole babbled in climax.
Griffith randied her rectum.
Chattered into Veronica’s straining face, held next to his in embrace.
“You ever see Constance wear the gewgaws?”
“Fuck me. Can’t I even come around here? Wear them? Only to some charity affairs.”
“What’s that?”
“You gotta fuck that ass with that prick! Just let me come awhile, huh?”
“Affairs. Constance wore the pearls to affairs.
“What kind were they?”
“Oh, fuck. It’s over now, you aaaaasshole. Constance wore those whory-booking black baubles to balls. Dinners. Polo matches or tennis tourneys where they gamble and the pot goes to deserving charities and such.”
“Noble pastimes.”
With a sneer, Veronica wrenched her rear end to the side.
Griffith’s prong squealed from her bung. Her bum nipped shut with a smack.
“Your haaaaawg’s snout is a dinky pigshit-feeder.” she snapped. “Sowfucker, fuck your piglet brother. You buttered my rump and then wouldn’t let me get over the hump. Go suck a pregnant skunk, man.”
“Anyone who attends these charitable affairs have a professional interest in pearl diving?”
“Give me a break. My asshole aches. You got off nicely right down my throat. I have to be satisfied with a few little jolts”
“About Constance’s habits? She misplace her things-often?”
Veronica wiped around the rim of her asshole with a finger.
Sniffed the fingertip in her nostril. Glared straight into Griffith’s face.
“Try asking the lady herself,” she said. “Isn’t that like something you’re paid to do?”
“In due time.”
“Oh, I see,” Veronica said, narrowing her eyes. “Like, first you want to have the all the answers yourself. So you can see if Constance is lying when you pretend to try to get it out of her.”
“Not necessarily. I simply think people’s rationales for their actions-as well as how they perceive those of others-are more informative than whether they lie per se. Lying is so much a given that in itself it tells you nothing. People sometimes don’t even know they are lying.”
“So where are you there?”
“You are primed to find the motive behind the deception-whether the deception is consciously calculated or is self-deception ingrained into their egos as a defense against past deeds.”
“Fuckingchrist.”
“Care to hazard a guess?”
“So, Mister So Clean He Won’t Come Up My Asshole. I see you’re a Sherlock Holmes and a Sigmund Freud rolled into one.”
“I try to be a bit of a psych-out artist. Part of the package.”
“Fuuuu-uck you say. Those pearls of hers are not anywhere near as valuable as some of the other jewelry-the stilt Constance keeps locked up. Likes the pearls a lot, though. She tell you they’re heirlooms? Maybe Constance likes to keep them near her person for sentimental reasons.”
Veronica drifted her gaze away. Played with her headhair as if annoyed with it.
Griffith continued. “Maybe she’s auctioning the pearls off for sentimental reasons, too.”
“You don’t understand how things can get when you’re rich,” Veronica sniffed.
“It’s almost as if your emotions don’t count.”
“Sorry for you.”
“Toodle-oo,” Veronica said, leaping to her feet. “Gotta get back to practice now-If I’m gonna be ready to compete on the synchronized swimming team at the next Olympics.”
“That’s like water ballet?”
“The shit you say,” she brayed. “It’s a brutally demanding sport. I’m a finely tuned athlete. I’m ordinarily not rude, but if! could fart on cue I’d do it in your face.”
“Didn’t mean to insult you. I’m just ignorant.”
“Your ignorance is an insult.”
“And top of the morning to you, too.”
Veronica turned toward the pool.
She jackknifed at the waist.
Brought her hands together behind her butt.
Her asscheeks flared open as she crouched slightly in a diving posture.
Her asshole juddered open.
“Toot,” she blew through her blowhole.
Her hinder flews shuddered. Anus stuttered.
“Craaa-ack!” Veronica hacked out breezily from her rump as she gave it a pump.
“Here’s another one, dude,” Veronica chewed.
“Boop!” her asshole chuckled.
“Talented girl,” Griffith wheezed.
He saluted Veronica with the still-sticky ‘tips of his fingers.
Touched his fingers to his lips. Wiped the inside of his mouth.
Stirred his spittle.
He slurped up a syrup of residue. Sensed the finny aftertaste of Veronica’s stew.
“Don’t forget to take your smelly clothes with you,” Veronica cackled as she sailed through the air. “Their presence distracts me.”
Chapter V
Baroquely curlicued cockgrin caged in his pants, Griffith Poindexter danced a few jigsreps in place on the crest of the hillock overlooking the greenhouse off to the side of the uninhabited sundeck. He had sensed the boiling cuntoils of passionate pussy-inspired plots upon his first entrance to the foyer of Charity House.
And right there from the start Griffith had a few surmises about the possible disposition of those black pearls. As well as why the lady might have preferred to keep them close at hand in the boudoir, nestling among her lingerie.
It was true that nothing Griffith had learned had actually confirmed any of a number of variations on his theory.
But nothing quite contradicted it, either.
“Supposing confidentially, milady,” Griffith practiced confidently, “that I do have an angle on where those pearls might be at present?-Naw. If it’s gonna wind up in one of her books, Constance will want it to come out more indirectly. Slow, tantalizing build-up. That’s how I’ll go.”
With this change of heart, Griffith kisses the wind. Griffith next takes a turn over the field where, on other days, polo ponies graze.
No recent tracks. No dropped gloves, hankies, jewelry, or pens to identify the escaping thief like in the old-lady mystery stories. In fact, there are no material clues thus far anywhere at all as to the whereabouts of the missing baubles. Except in the literary sense that the piles of horseshit surrounding him in the field seem to be a figurative expression- mute commentary as though to confirm Griffith’s ultimate suspicions.
Alone on the polo playground, Griffith hefts his well-worn twanger in his hand.
He examines the head.
Swollen and red.
Anything but underfed.
The facelike expression of the sculptured pricktip exudes satiety.
The helmetlike hoghead a rounded, tapering wedge with convoluted edges.
Curled crown slanting along the sides of the dong in a smirk.
Blue veins running throughout the ivory length like swirls of specially selected marble.
He gives the penis a jerk.