Notorious?  The only thing I know about "Notorious" is the Hitchcock movie,  but I was about to find out much more. Remember me? I'm Penelope Spade,  a novice Private Eye in Cincinnati,  Ohio.  The business started slow but since cracking the Col. Mustard murder case, where he met a gruesome demise by a candlestick in the conservatory, my fame has spread like a Kardashian's legs on first dates.  Speaking of mustard, I realized I was so hungry I could eat a Skyline coney (Now, that's hunger!)  My drooling was interrupted by a potential client stumbling through my broken door.

"I'm Paul Powell." As he extends his clammy hand....mmmm clams.
 
After introducing myself, he continued, saying he owned a seedy club in nearby Sharonville. It was moderately successful, but one of his employees seems to have been dipping into the till, (and Ms. Till seems to like it.) My job?  Find the culprit and obtain restitution. Grabbing my expense money, I called for an Uber. Since my client was paying, I told the driver to take the scenic route. (Yeah, like Apparently has a scenic route!) Riding in Sharonville,  we drove past the city's finest eateries from  A-Z (Arbys to Zaxbys).  

 Now it was time to check the crime scene, the Stagger Inn. Once there, I saw her standing there by the record machine and I struggled to put a name with the face.  I knew her from somewhere, perhaps from my stay at Crater Lake or Haddenfield, Illinois. I had to start somewhere so why not her since she's a waitress apparentlly.

Finding an almost clean table, I sat and motioned the alluring brunette to me. I even had plenty of ones in case a lap dance broke out. Soon she was jiggling her way to me. 

"Don't I know you?" She said excitedly.  "We went to school together.  I'm Fonda...Fonda Peters"

I bet you are, I thought to myself, then suddenly remembered her.  "Fuckable Fonda" was her nickname at Whasamatta U., our alma mater. Her name was written in every boy's restroom in school. Oddly enough, it was her handwriting. Allegedly, her vagina was where STD'S congregated to discuss current events. She was legendary for blow jobs. "She could suck a golf ball through a garden hose," the Reverend Horne told his congregation at her Baptism. Her oral skills cured her protein deficiency as well as left her with a flawless complexion.  She once had lockjaw and half the football team became suicidal. I was once told she had more yeast infections than Mrs. Popping Fresh. (Rimshot!)

Yes, she was ....notorious! I hadn't thought of school in years. A very prestigious school, part of the Poison Ivy League. I earned my degree in computer science there. I can still picture the powerful Commodore 64's lining the walls. Still mulling over Fonda, I recall she once had a sordid dalliance with the school lesbian and I wondered if she remembered the ropes. (Of course, she did. It's like riding a Sybian, you never forget.) I wondered if she was still interested in hot girl-on-girl shenanigans, but that delusion crashed as five dudes in sailor outfits burst in, yelling her name in unison like a bad Cheers episode.

I thought they might be auditioning for the Village People, but judging by the impressive bulges they each were packing, I assumed they were more interested in a box lunch at the Y than staying at one.  She led them out en masse to the side of the club and a parking space, "reserved for Fonda and Friends". It even had a picnic table and grill. She proceeded with her oral exam, one at a time.  I hoped she had noticed the ironic "No spitting on the sidewalk," warning signs. Soon her head was bobbing up and down  like the Minnow when the weather started getting rough. I haven't heard that much gagging since seniors night at Golden Corral. With nautical semen dripping from her chin, she opened her enormous Coach (very costly, clue #1) bag and pulled out a roll of Bounty paper towels (fitting since both are quicker picker uppers) to clear the scene of DNA as well as validating parking.

As she withdrew the towels, a large wad of bills fell to the ground, which she picked up hurriedly. Our eyes met and we both knew this case, unlike her legs, was closed. I escorted her back inside where she confessed all, stealing $102.47 from the register to buy viagra for a needy homeless man with no known name.  She dropped to her knees as if to pray like all busted criminals, but to my joy, she buried her face between my legs and began the slurp of love. She was certainly getting her money's worth with those kneepads. I was about to object but I came to my senses and she slipped her middle finger inside me....twisting and turning like a Water park flume. Resting my leg on her shoulder, my hips began thrusting like a seizure victim.  I begged for more....of anything. 

I wish I had met her earlier, before her life of crime. We were like Romeo and Juliette or Mr. And Mrs. Roper...star-crossed lovers. For this, I had sold my soul to the devil. Luckily I kept the receipt.

Looking up at me, adding a second finger, "Do you like that, cunt?" I hate foolish questions! I would have answered but the squishy sounds emitting from my pussy were both distracting and loud. Plus my scent was beginning to attract seagulls. I knew this orgasm was worth the money I would soon give her boss for her restitution. I would probably still be cumming if I hadn't noticed the sailors watching, pleasuring themselves, fists blurry. If we didn't leave now, I would soon be covered in their seed. I can't tolerate that. I have a reputation.  I'm not (Wait for it!).....notorius.