I gunned it through the iron gates, up a blacktop lane that
looped its way to the barn-sized front door of the Bisbey
mansion. I slid out of my jalopy and stared at the
architectural monstrosity – two glowering storeys of red
brick and bronze gargoyles, fronted by Southern gothic
pillars that put rotted teeth into the ugly face of the
building. For the middle of the Great Depression, it was
quite the joint. The discovery of oil in the LA basin had
enriched a chosen few, when most were shuffling their
tired dogs through bread lines and unemployment offices.
I eschewed the ornamental brass knocker and
hammered on the door with my fist. A servant led me into
the hushed, cool confines of a marble-carpeted hallway, up
a winding staircase clothed in red velvet, to the second-
floor study of the mistress of the manor.
Her name was Etta Bisbey, and she was seated behind
an oak-panelled desk large enough to float twenty Titanic
survivors. She rose, sashayed around the varnished
expanse of wood, giving me a good gander at all she had.
And, baby, she had plenty. Her large, round breasts
strained the buttons on her pearl-white blouse like Fatty
Arbuckle's claims of innocence strained credibility. The rest of her wasn't soup kitchen fare, either: pretty face,
pitch-black hair piled atop her gourd by the same skilled,
effeminate artisans who weave gold out of dross, a slim
waist, and shapely, slender calves and ankles peeking out
from under a sapphire-coloured skirt.
I pumped her extended hand. 'You said on the phone
you wanted me to find something,' I stated, talking shop
while my eyes took inventory. I dangled my hat over my
crotch, to conceal a rather rude case development down
there.
'Yes, Mr Polk,' Mrs Bisbey responded. 'An item of
mine – an objet d'art – has been stolen, and I must get it
back.' Her hand fluttered about her throat, then down the
side of her breast.
Her voice and mannerisms were a little too exaggerated
for my taste; I smelled ham. 'You an actress?' I asked,
impressing her with my whiskey-clotted powers of
observation. What babe with a built-for-bed body like
hers, living in sunny, sinny LA, the widow of an oil
tycoon who, when living, had more wrinkles in his dick
erect than flaccid, wasn't a current or former actress?
She pirouetted away from me, strutted to the window
and gazed out at the Hollywood Hills, perhaps doing a
visual size comparison. 'Why, yes, I was a thespian of
some renown – at one time,' she remarked.
I studied the wicked silhouette of her generous tits and
gave my pocket-rocket a surreptitious stroke of affection.
'What's been lifted?'
'I have a picture of the…item…in my bedroom.'
We adjourned to the room next door, a tastefully-
appointed sleeping and sex flop big enough to shelter a
Wobblies' convention. She pulled open a drawer in a
walnut nightstand, took a picture out of the drawer,
handed it to me. It was an 8 by 10 glossy of a black dildo – a rather immense dildo if I was any judge of perspective,
and pricks. I glanced from the picture to her, and her face
went redder than post-war Russia.
'It's an object of no real value to others, but of great,
uh, sentimental value to myself,' she breathed, twisting
her hands. 'My father obtained it from a tribal chieftain in
the Belgian Congo during one of his explorations many
years back. It's supposed to bring its owner good luck.'
And great gushes of girl-goo, no doubt. I tossed the picture
of the inflamed cunt-plunger on her bed, said, 'No dice,
doll. I don't hunt sex toys – unless they're human.' I had a
semi-reputable reputation to maintain, after all, and
scurrying off on a clam digger expedition wasn't going to
improve it any. I headed for the exit, stage-right.
'Mr Polk!' she gasped.
I spun around, and gaped in awe at her spectacular,
naked upper body. 'Yiminy yaminy,' I murmured, ogling
her twin, creamy-white globes, her jutting, pink nipples.
She cupped her huge, heavy tits and squeezed, her wrist
strength incredible. 'Are you sure I can't convince you to
handle my case?' she whispered.
I scratched the erect stubble on my chin. 'I guess if you
put it that way,' I rationalized, tearing my hat and jacket
off, ripping away my tie.
I grabbed her proffered jugs and kneaded the firm,
warm, blue-veined flesh. Then I bent my head down, her
tits up, and licked at her engorged nipples. I nursed on her
rubbery nubs for a good, long while, then shoved her onto
the bed and climbed aboard. I unhanded and un-mouthed
her burlesque show boobies just long enough to fumble
my pants and shorts down, her skirt open. I tore her
panties apart and grabbed my cocked love-hammer and stuck it inside her pussy.
Then I froze like Scott at the South Pole. I was
swimming down there! My sperm-shooter comes with a
seven-inch barrel, fully-loaded, but it couldn't get even the
slightest bit of traction in Mrs Bisbey's stretched-out man-
catcher. I snorted, churned my hips, got absolutely
nowhere. 'What are the actual dimensions of that missing
dildo of yours?' I asked dejectedly.
'Well, it's about ten and three-quarter inches in
circumference, I suppose, and approximately thirteen and
a third inches in length. Its head is –'
'Stow it,' I groaned. 'I get the picture.' Obviously, her
ebony plaything had spoiled her for any normal guy, ever
again.
After making ourselves decent, Mrs Bisbey gave me the
photo of her absconded art-piece/cunt-plug and strict
instructions not to talk to her step-children, servants, or
friends about the case. She claimed that none of them even
knew about her thirteen-inch, blue-black dipstick, and that
they could all be trusted anyway.
How the hell the busty broad expected me to get my
mitts on a giant dong without chatting up any of her
connections, I had no idea. But I agreed to follow her
wishes – for the time being – and made my first pit stop
Sol 'Gutsy' Gutzinger. Gutsy was a peeping-tom
blackmailer who had kidnapped rich kid's pets for a living
before he'd cleaned up his act. His shutterbug specialty
was actors and actresses who could afford to pay to keep
unwanted publicity private. He had a file and photos on
every silver screen show-off from Zdeno Adams to Alma-
May Zbitnew.
I slipped through the unhinged door that served as the
entrance to the fleabag hotel he called home and office,
took rotted stairs to the third floor, and strode into his dump, inadvertently scaring off an old geezer clutching a
heavy-bound book like it was a stone tablet just come hot
off the Mount. Gutsy also operated a pornographic lending
library, when he wasn't making with the creeping ivy.
'What'd you got on Etta Bisbey?' I asked, tossing a
crumpled twenty his way.
He was hunkered down on a ratty sofa, his fat mouth
wrapped around a ham sandwich, his fat hand a bottle of
beer. 'The film floozy that married the croaked oil baron?'
he grunted, his porcine features gleaming sweat.
'Yeah, something like that. She lives out on –'
'I know where she spreads 'em, gumshoe,' he growled.
He shoved more sandwich into his kisser, took a leisurely
chug of beer, and waited.
I tossed another twenty into his crusty lap.
He set his snack down on the dust-coloured carpet,
hefted himself off the tortured couch, and waddled over to
a row of filing cabinets. 'Etta Vlat was the tomato's
maiden name, if I 'member correct – which I always do.'
He bent in half like a sagging tower of mashed potatoes,
pulled out a drawer marked 'V', a file marked 'Vlat'.
He straightened up with a groan, thumbed through the
file, then let out a wolf-whistle. 'Well, hello dolly! Kee-
rist, I musta jerked off to this dame's films more'n any –'
'Spill the beans, Gutsy!' I barked, instantly regretting
my choice of words.
According to Gutsy, Etta Vlat had been a stage and silent
film actress in the late-teens and early-twenties – before
my time. She'd been a real bankable cock-throb, until
she'd had an affair with a black stagehand while still
starring in a sham marriage with another matinee idol who
was rumoured to stick his dick where the sun didn't shine. The resulting scandalous abortion and divorce had deep-
sixed her career quicker than leprosy.
The stagehand's name was Leonard Little and it was to
his seedy address in Hollywood that I next directed my
flivver. Ten minutes of phoning had confirmed his
location in the city directory; he was the guy who too-
vehemently denied ever knowing one Etta Vlat.
He rented number 306 in a grime-stuccoed building
located next to an abandoned liquor store, and when I
pressed my ear to his papier-mâché door, I heard the
unmistakable grunting and groaning of the body-English
language. I kicked the door open with a size-twelve and,
snapping on the lights, beheld a black guy banging a white
gal from behind, on a foldaway bed. The guy had a
prosthetic penis rigged to his loins – a huge, night-shaded
dong about ten and three-quarter inches in circumference
and approximately thirteen and a third inches in length.
'What the fuck you want!?' the cock-strapped man
yelled.
I pointed meaningfully at his dangling dick.
I sent Leonard Little's bed-buddy packing, then spoke to
Little with my clenched fists for a minute or two, till he
came bloody well clean. He and Etta had indeed been a
pair back in the roaring 20s, until he'd knocked her up,
flown the coop, and then tried to blackmail her and the
studio by threatening to go to the papers. Etta had endured
a near-death abortion experience, and she rewarded Little
for his ungentlemanly behaviour by tracking him down
and hacking his double-length dong off with a meat
cleaver.
Time had passed, wounds had healed, and Little had
resigned himself to a less-than-cocksure lifestyle, Etta to
the well-paid role of career housewife. But then Little heard that Etta had turned a plaster cast of his prodigious
prong, made in happier times, into a workable, rubberized
dildo. Having his meat cleaved was one thing, but having
his ex-lover pleasuring herself with his cock, while he
wasn't attached to it, was too much. So, he'd taken back
what he thought rightfully belonged to him – his manhood.
I relayed all of my juicy findings back to Etta, after
she'd snatched the liquorice thunderstick out of my hand
and started lovingly stroking it like a long-lost friend.
When I was done with my monologue, she quickly paid
me off, obviously anxious to get reacquainted with her
black beauty. I headed for the study door as she raced into
her bedroom, then I quickly backtracked and surveyed her
from the crack in the bedroom door, to make sure I hadn't
sold her a phoney bill of goods, of course.
She stripped out of her blue, tailor-made dress, her
pink, silk under-thingies, until she was as breathtakingly
naked as the truth, her bountiful breasts hanging huge
from her rib cage. Then she bent down and yanked
something out from under her bed. A blue-black corpse!
No, upon closer examination, I saw that it was a life-size
replica of the groin-gouged Leonard Little. I even
recognized his outsize bellybutton. And as I stared in
amazement at the black mannequin, Etta locked the
colossal cock back into place with a deft twist of her wrist,
and Little was big once more.
I slid my own rod out of my pants, rubbed it like the
New Deal rubbed some folks the wrong way, as Etta
hurriedly straddled her former lover's body-double, spread
her puffy, pink pussy lips, and eased them over the
mushroomed cock head of that towering pole, then down
the incredible length of the snatch-shattering shaft. She
groaned with unadulterated joy as the lethal cock-imitation
sank into her sopping-wet puss like a lance into a Spanish bull, till the massive member was buried to the pre-formed
balls in her glistening gash.
Impaled on that ebony-sheathed sword, she began
churning her taut ass up and down, the dong sliding back
and forth in her gripping, dripping sex hole, her breasts
bouncing up and down with glee as she stuffed her warped
pussy full of industrial-sized dick. I stared at her jouncing
jugs, my hand a blur on my steel-hard cum-cannon, and
when Etta cried out in blistering ecstasy, I saluted her
spectacular show of nostalgic lust by coating her bedroom
door and carpet with sticky, steaming adulation.
But the fun didn't end there. She quickly recovered
from her long, hard pussy ride, reached back and spread
apart her rounded butt cheeks, and split her anus in two on
the dark, deadly dildo. I felt obliged to hold my post to the
very end, and soon added even more substance to the
gooey contents of the case file that I'd already emptied
onto the floor.