The Big Enchilada

eyes, and I quickly continued, “Look, it’s probably nothing—just coincidence. Forget it.” Maybe there was nothing there, but it felt funny to me, and I didn’t want her slipping again and talking to Acker before I could do some checking. I changed the subject.
    “Have you ever heard your husband mention Domingo?”
    “No. Who is it?”
    I told her what had happened earlier in the day, and how I thought it must be connected with one of the cases I was working on. She had never seen the big ugly that threw me around, and she was not liable to have forgotten him if she had.
    She was concerned about what I told her, but it was clear that she had some trouble paying attention. Her mind was occupied elsewhere. Not surprisingly, the elsewhere was Acker’s secret apartment, about which she wanted to hear more.
    I described the place to her in some detail, but she impatiently asked me about the women that went there. I passed on what the pro had told me—the kinds of things that Acker liked to do, the way the girl had to act to turn him on, the way his personality changed when he got into costume and held a whip in his hand. There was nothing very unusual in any of this, but it was like a brand new world opening up for Clarissa Acker.
    I took another big pull on my drink and watched the changing expressions on her face as she considered my report. At first she looked surprised and bewildered at this totally unexpected revelation, and then she considered whether this was the information she needed to do whatever it was she wanted to do to her husband. Her expression grew hard as she thought about Acker’s activities.
    “... so that’s what he likes... that’s what it takes, the bastard...” she said to herself, but she was clearly puzzled, and she tried to imagine what it was like. Her imagination must have been pretty good. Her eyes closed and her breathing got deeper. Drops of perspiration appeared above her upper lip. Almost unconsciously her hand started to caress her body, running over her thighs, her belly, up to her breasts, and then inside the kaftan to rub her nipples.
    Suddenly she opened her eyes, surprised to see me. “Oh, shit, Hunter!” she said, and then threw herself on me, her mouth greedily attacking mine, her tongue moving fast, surging deep into my mouth. There was a kind of desperate urgency to her—almost violent—as though all the frustration and anger and hatred of the last few years had suddenly found an outlet. It was exciting, but also a little frightening—and a little sad.
    Her hands were at my waistband, hurrying to get my pants open, frantically grabbing to get me exposed. When she succeeded, she quickly got between my knees, taking me whole into her mouth. As her lips and tongue did their dance, a low growl escaped from deep inside her throat.
    She stood up and pulled the kaftan over her head. I was right about her sunbathing. Her tan was dark and continuous. She had not worn a bathing suit in a long time. Her breasts were rapidly rising and falling, the nipples vibrating. The downy hair that covered her mound glistened with the moisture of her juices. She was pretty spectacular.
    An audible sigh passed her lips, and she was trembling. She was clearly impatient, almost unbearably so, but she controlled it. She was not selfish. She wanted it to last, and she wanted it to be good for me as well. She came over to me, and slowly, slowly removed my clothes, her mouth and hands fingering over me. Her sighing deepened, her trembling increased, and still she delayed, intent on giving me pleasure before she took hers.
    I picked her up and laid her on the fur rug. I entered her in one quick thrust that made her gasp. Her body folded to meet mine and I felt her breasts beneath my chest and her buttocks in my hands as each of us struggled and fought to completely drain the other.
    It was all right.
    Exhausted, we lay next to each other. After a minute, I got up and went over to get my drink. Most of the ice had melted, and I finished it in one swallow. I lit a Gitane and let it hang on my lip. I looked down at Clarissa Acker, who was starting to stir on the rug. She was something, all right, but I forced my thoughts away from her and back to my problem. I was not any further along, but at least I had a new angle to look into.
    She rolled over and looked up at me. She had the smug, happy look of a kitten glutted with heavy cream.
    “Oh, Hunter, I needed that. Thanks.”
    “Just part