Skittles - Sex Stories

Skittles

The name’s Chase. Franklin Roosevelt Chase. I’m a private Dick in Pratchett or Fairyville as the locals call it. It’s not a profession for someone who’s averse to getting a little dirt on them. Suits me perfectly. It doesn’t pay well, but it puts enough change in my pocket to keep my vices going; drinking to excess, losing at cards, and pissing off good looking dames. Today I was on a roll. Not even happy hour and already I’d lost next month’s rent to a joker holding a trio of ladies and blown my last cheddar on hooch. Two for three. Not bad. Maybe I should give my ex a call and let her know the alimony check would be late. Again. I’d gotten as far as picking up the phone when a knock on the door stayed my hand. A glance through the frosted window with my moniker etched in copper had me setting the receiver back in the cradle. Looks like lady luck had a serious beef with me today and was sending me a doozy. “It’s open,” I called out, doing my best to straighten my tie into a semblance of dignity and give my hair a quick finger comb as the dull brass knob on my side of the office turned and in walked the nicest pair of gams I’d ever set eyes on. “Franklin Chase?” Her voice oozed of sex or maybe that was just wishful thinking. “At your Service. What can I do you for?” “I want to hire your services, Mister Chase.” “Pull up a chair, Miss…?” Third thing I’d taken notice of was the lack of a wedding band. I should mention the first two; she had legs to die for, not to mention she ...

... was stacked to the rafters up top. She gave me the once over before answering, and I could only imagine what she was seeing; the rumpled suit, disheveled hair, and two days’ worth of stubble on my cheeks. The desk I was sat behind matched my appearance. I made a mental note to hire a cleaning lady and immediately scratched it off the list as another expense I couldn’t afford. “Day. Valentine Day.” There was a hint of ice in her voice as if she was daring me to crack wise. Have to admit, I had to swallow down several remarks before they left my lips. “Take a seat, Miss Day, and tell me why you’re here.” Another glance around the office, followed by a small sigh, gave me a good impression of her reluctance to come into contact with the single unoccupied chair on her side of the desk. Somehow, she managed to keep her expression of disdain a momentary thing as she sat. “It’s my sister. I think she’s in trouble.” “What kind of trouble?” I did my best to disguise my disappointment at the way she kept her knees pressed together. The sheer black stocking she wore hinted at expensive lingerie. The kind that men like me only dreamed of burying their face in. Even a glimpse would have made me forget about my troubles for the rest of the afternoon. Maybe even longer. “Skittles,” she replied distastefully, her fingers curling momentarily, drawing my attention to the crimson lacquer she’d coated them with. Strange. She was obviously upper class – that pastels and pearls crowd. You notice ...