I. I was not really a P.I. because that would mean committing to a field that held little allure for me. Most of the P.I.'s that I knew were alcoholic... or failed policemen looking to scratch out a living on the edges of society.Most of the stuff I did was sheer bullshit and boredom but now and then an interesting scenario did arise that sort of compensated for all the crap. I had lost contact with "Julie" my eighteen year old muse with the tightest pussy I had ever navigated. She gave me a line. . down my neck, a sort of spout. I can feel the desire fill my cock, the way red wine fills jars - or a blossom is made. My thighs shift and squirm. I can still taste the fig on my tongue - so sweet, in all its fleshiness. Down, down - valleys made of skin. My mouth is gaping - as if for use, as if any man or woman might shove their tongue in it, lick out all that fig from it, and maybe branches would sprout from my bones. I have reached my nipples, less white - teasing them, teasing them. More

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