There she is, pure honeyed gold, bang on cue. Third window from the left. First floor balcony. Light spills past her silhouette, a halo projected into the freezing night air, breath frosting ahead of her like the smoke I blow out through the crack of the Lincoln's window.

She stares out over the city, all platinum blonde perfection. Searchin’ for something but I'm fucked if I know what. Hopes and dreams, maybe? An end to the fake glitz of this godforsaken place that shatters them? P’raps she's lookin’ for that scrawny, deadbeat husband who hired me to find who she’s cheating with.

He’s a weasel. A banker, which in these times is no different from being a crook. He sure as hell don't deserve her. She's outta his league. Maybe that's why she strays? All he provides is greenbacks to keep her in the manner to which she's accustomed. Probably got no fizz in the bedroom. No stamina.

Anyone but him can see she's the kind of broad who needs a firm hand. The strong ones always do. A little restraint, a little danger, a little blush to their skin makes ‘em drip. The ones that look like angels are devils inside. Trust me.

With Francesca Heaton, the enticement is her halo, but the real crown is her smarts. Yeah, I did my homework. Where her peers might be content as housewives, she's only happy makin’ waves. Showing men how to do things proper. Fundraising for the local orphanage. Or the hospital. Or museum. Charming rich assholes outta cash for good causes is what she does best. She lets 'em take credit of course, while pulling the strings and taking her cut. Usin' the banker’s money and her connections to grease wheels.

I dunno how she does it, but she gets results. Dinners. Galas. Clandestine meetings in hotel suites to seal deals. I can see why he became suspicious. Truth is, she could be bangin’ any of ‘em. Or all of ‘em. But I doubt it. It would cheapen her methods, and she sure ain't cheap.

How she makes ‘em pony up don't really matter. I get paid regardless. And watching her’s a dream job, 'specially in that fluffy robe. The way the street light catches her curves defies description. My breath hitches when she leans over the balcony and her gown gapes. The belt swings free and she gazes first to the street, then into the distance. Contemplates. Stands and lets the garment fall to pool at her feet.

My god that lingerie is incredible. Hugs every sweeping arc. Dark, luxurious lace, tits barely contained in the generous cups. A scrap of panty material leads the eye to where she wants it.

Sweeping pizza crumbs off the passenger seat, I fumble for the camera. Zoom in, full telephoto. Frame her. Snap. When she turns to profile, I capture her faraway gaze, petite nose, and sumptuous lips that deliver promises her body can cash.

I wonder if I'll be treated to a striptease this time. Last week she remained clothed. A few days before that, she unhooked her bra and paraded the bedroom, swinging, enticing. Her tits are soft and supple, the firming caps inviting bites. I photographed them. Not for him. For me. Perk of the job.

Disappearing from the window, she returns holding a champagne flute. Sips from the edge, elegance incarnate. Places it on the glass topped coffee table just below the balcony railing and sways to a beat I can't hear. Hands skim the fluid grace of her sides and I harden as she reaches behind and frees the clasp.

The delicate brassiere falls away from her shoulders and I swear she hears my gasp, castin' a gaze down to my parked car. It don't deter her. She traces liquid curves to cup the fullness of her breasts. Squeezes, the flesh deforming, and her mouth opens. A whimper carries on the slight breeze to the car window when she pinches her nipples.

It's dark. Just one street light opposite. I could free my dick and beat off to the vision, but I don't. I watch and swell in my pants as she tugs at her flesh. Teases. A slender fingertip and thumb capture both firm tips and elongate them. The heat of the pain registers, mouth dropping open further, a gasp escaping that turns to a hiss.

When she releases the grip on her nipples, the hiss becomes a sigh, tempered by massaging those exquisite orbs. I'm surprised steam don't escape her panties into the frigid air.

The moment is interrupted by the bang of a nearby doorway, muffled jazz spilling into the street as two men exit, trilbies pulled low, suits pristine. They pause to finish cigarettes, animated conversation in full flow. Neither look up to witness Francesca playing with her tits. She carries on, carefree, cupping and squeezing and flicking and pinching, the only change being the bitten lip to stifle her moans.

I hunker down in my seat when business concludes. Spent butts are tossed to the sidewalk and ground with polished heels. The men depart in opposite directions, the one that passes my window barely acknowledging my presence.

When their footsteps fade, I take a final drag, wind down the window and flick my own cigarette to spark, roll and come to rest in the gutter. Smoke curls from my nostrils as I gaze up through the windshield. She's holdin' the handrail with one hand. The other is open. Poised above her chest.

Even though I know what's about to happen, the spank and sharp cry makes me blink and flinch in my seat like I've been shot. She scrunches her body and twists as the pain and heat roll through it, only uncoiling when her massaging palm soothes the sting.

I'm fully hard. Swear I'm leaking pre-cum in my underwear. I hoist the camera to my eye and use the viewfinder as a zoom to watch her more closely. Snap a few frames as she abuses her flawless tits. The lens captures darker marks where fingerprints have struck. The huffed heat billowing from her gasp. The flush of her decolletage that hints at wetness staining her panties.

After the heat of the final savage slap to her left breast recedes, she stretches catlike to full height. I'm dying to see more.

Almost as if she can read my mind, she releases the handrail and slowly turns away. My pulse thunders at the thin strip of fabric that plunges between her ass cheeks. She lifts the champagne to her lips and as the bubbles ripple into her throat, the blonde mane skims the base of her spine. Almost taunting. Pull my hair. Yesss. Fuck me hard. Spank my ass. Treat me as your slut. Your mistress. Yeah, just like that.

Replacing the glass on the coffee table, she glides hands up her curves. Laces fingers behind her head like she's in the naughty corner. Like she wants them cuffed. Wants the full body shiver as a collar is clipped around her neck. And then to be tormented. Stroked. Teased. Owned. Lashed with a belt while she's unable to prevent the heat tearing through her voluptuous frame.

Each stripe on her immaculate ass would drizzle more juice into her underwear until they're see-through. Until she's a beggin' mess.

Dames like that are trouble. No doubt about it.

She unlinks her fingers. Traces them back down her sides. Bends a little at the waist. Cups, lifts and lets go of her ass. Then again. Raises a hand and swats one cheek. Repeats with the other. The cracks ring out over the balcony along with her puffs of pain, followed by groans of satisfaction as she rubs the flesh better.

Trouble, pure and simple. I take pictures. Plenty of pictures. Squirm in the seat, rearranging my dick that's tenting my pants.

One smack later and I give in. I'm only human.

Tossing the camera aside, I crank the window shut. Climb out, cross the street and rap on the door. Stamp my feet to keep out the cold until she answers, still topless. Marked.

Stepping into the warmth of the house, she grabs my lapel, pulls me to her softness and whispers, “What took you so long?” as the door swings shut behind us.

I breathe her scent. Some fancy perfume made from the tears of Nepalese virgins or somethin'. It's delicate. Floral yet dangerous, like Belladonna. Burying my face in her neck, I growl, "Fuckin' minx, teasing me like that."

She laughs, high cadence. "You don't like it?"

Cupping her ass, she flinches as I squeeze the tenderness. "I should teach you a lesson."

"Promises promises."

Our eyes lock, followed by lips, hands clutching. Hers scrabble at my tie and shirt and pants buttons as she frees my turgid prick and sinks to her knees to worship it. Me. She slathers and slurps and gags and gazes up at me with wanton abandon until I groan and fill her mouth with pent up spunk that she eagerly swallows.

I wipe an errant drop of cream into her mouth and let her suck my finger clean. Guide her up. Stroke the marks on her tits and trace their curvature. Take their weight. Run one hand down her belly. Capture her hand and twist, turning her around. "Such a naughty girl," I whisper in her ear. "What would your husband say?"

She gives a sharp laugh. "He doesn't make me cum like you do." Strugglin' a little in my grip, she turns her head a fraction. "I thought I was good anyway?"

I nip her ear. "Good. Bad. What's the difference when you taste like this?" My free hand digs into her panties and exits wet. With sticky fingertips, I paint her lips and she licks them clean. Her shiver ripples against my body.

Marching her upstairs, the tantalizing whisper of stockings and bounce of her buttocks are at eye level every step. I briefly focus on the sexy, lone dark freckle midway up her right cheek. Even her imperfections make my heart pound.

Rounding the banister, I shove her into the bedroom, their bedroom, pushin' her to the bed. I climb on. Ravish every inch of exposed flesh. Bite. Kiss. Lick. Pull her hair. Spank her until she begs for my reawakened cock to plunder her dripping cunt. She's got a mouth on her when she's riled.

I take my fill and she takes hers, pinned to the mattress. A snarling mixture of lust and lace as she mewls and cries into the pillow to be treated as a slut. As my mistress. To make it hurt good.

She's never disappointed.

When we’re done, she lounges on the bed naked, sheened in sweat, tousled hair, my cum peppering her bush and distended pussy lips. Disheveled beauty.

She watches me dress. Rolls towards me, ending face up with her hair dangling over the bed edge so I can caress her tits. I bend to kiss and nip them. Dust my lips across her throat, then up to her mouth for a lingering French kiss.

When I break contact, I stroke her hair. Let it slip through my fingertips as I back away, our eyes on one another until they no longer can.

I let myself out. Cross the street with a single backward glance to her vacant window.

Climbin' back into the Continental, I gun the engine. Smile. Yeah, she's a perk of the job alright. Funny though, I still can't find the guy who's fucking her.

Maybe I never will.