Private Investigator Sean Wilkinson

Private investigator Sean Wilkinson paused and slammed the sex magazine shut. A dark Mini shot around the corner at excessive speed and came to a stop with screeching tires, millimeter-precisely in front of the garage entrance of the apartment building. In the three weeks that he had been shadowing her, Bridget Rosari had not once arrived in front of the house at normal speed. As he now knew, the long-legged blonde was very temperamental, and not just when driving.

It had all started as a boring, routine assignment. A slim but pale woman had turned up in his run-down office late at night. He estimated her to be in her mid-40s, but she looked older. She was elegantly dressed and had a good figure. Nevertheless, she looked as lifeless as a mummy. A little later he also knew the reason: the woman suspected that her husband was cheating on her. Then she told him about her suffering, although Wilkinson did not want to hear the story: their sex life had become more boring over the years. Being together had become routine. And at some point, her husband had simply looked elsewhere. Of course, the good woman tried everything to get him interested in her again: she lost weight, went to the gym and even gave up smoking. All for her husband’s sake. But her efforts didn’t help. What a surprise!

Now she wanted a divorce. She had not yet told her husband that she wanted to separate. Wilkinson was supposed to get photographic evidence of her husband’s infidelity. Everything else would then be just a formality.

The lady stood up and pressed an envelope with large bills into his hand. A ridiculous gesture. Why did everyone think he was Jerry Cotton or Mike Hammer? Besides, it was 2023 and not the 1950s. Had Miss Palmer never heard of the invention of the bank transfer? But his new client insisted on this procedure. She had probably seen too many cheap TV crime dramas.

As he took the envelope, he touched the lady’s elegant hand. She looked at him in surprise, then kissed him. Wilkinson didn’t need to be asked twice, helped her out of her trench coat and pushed up her pencil skirt. Then he pushed his cock into the lady’s surprisingly wet slit and fucked his new client on the old Chesterfield sofa. That was unprofessional, no question about it. But it was still hot, Wilkinson thought.

The next day, Wilkinson followed her dear husband in his old Datsun Bluebird. Another divorce story, but what else could he do? He simply had no talent with computers or the Internet. Investigations into online fraud fell flat. The hip private detectives scoured the interesting cases and he was left with these relationship stories. Old-fashioned investigations were enough for that.

But Wilkinson soon realized that this case of adultery was different. And that was because of the woman Spencer Palmer visited the day after he took on the assignment. Because this was a very special woman...

Palmer drove his sports car into the city center and parked in front of a classy apartment building in the center of town. It was a new building that had been built to replace a post-war monstrosity. Exclusive and prestigious loft-style apartments. Expensive, of course. Palmer got out of his car and rang the doorbell. Wilkinson had rolled down the window of the Datsun and had a good view of the scene with his old Wetzlar binoculars. That’s why he was able to find out a little later that Palmer had rung Rosari’s doorbell.

The only problem was that this apartment was a penthouse on the top floor of the building. An elevator went straight into the apartment. The stairwell branched off from the lobby, and an old-fashioned but attentive concierge presided over it. It would be difficult to find out what Palmer was doing up there. But his instinct told him that a woman was waiting for him up there.

Wilkinson asked around: Rosari’s full name was Bridget Rosari. She was 38 years old and already the CEO of an IT company that had experienced a meteoric rise in recent years. She was married and had a daughter. In addition, a friend who moved in the city’s finer circles whispered to him, this woman was known for her high consumption of men. His internet knowledge was enough to find a photo of this woman on the net.

“Hot babe!” thought Wilkinson and whistled through his teeth. He had a photo in front of him showing Bridget Rosari giving a lecture on IT security to a bunch of gawking managers: her heels were high, her pantsuit tight, her legs long, her blouse lavishly filled. Blonde hair fell angelically onto the woman’s shoulders. “Heavens!” sighed Wilkinson, touched his cock to check it out and printed out the photo.

The next day, when Wilkinson stood in front of the apartment building in the center of the city, he noticed an old building on the other side of the street. This building was also from the post-war period: carelessly erected precast concrete as far as the eye could see. The hotel that was located within these walls had seen better days. No matter, because there was still a room available on the top floor. Since Mrs. Palmer’s expense account was well filled, Wilkinson rented a room.

In fact, from here he had a perfect view of the penthouse opposite: this was just a cube that had been slapped onto the second to last floor. This meant that the owner of the penthouse could enjoy a huge roof terrace. What was going on there made Wilkinson forget his sex magazines:

Bridget Rosari often turned up in her apartment after work, but not every day. Of course, she had a family after all. But when she was there, there was a lot going on!

This business slut was a vain thing: her office outfit was top notch. He had no idea about fashion, but he knew exactly when he liked an outfit: the skirts had to be short, the jeans slim, T-shirts and tops short and the blouses tight. Some women looked obnoxiously sexy in this kind of fashion, i.e. cheap, which was fine with him personally. He wasn’t picky - the main thing was that there was something to see... Other women, the sophisticated ones, had a better hand in choosing their clothes. These ladies - and of course Rosari was one of them - looked sexy AND classy. Wilkinson thought about it, then the word came to him: classy slut! In the next moment he admonished himself: pretty women had often turned his head, and more than once he had suffered bitter disappointments. Over the years, his unconditional admiration for pretty girls had been joined by a great deal of bitterness. And now, at 43, he felt like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hide: there were moments when he was still simply enchanted by the grace, sex appeal and elegance of the pretty ladies and could develop nothing but admiration for these women. But there were also moments - usually when he became aware of his single life and the dreariness of his stalled career - when he refused to be enchanted by sensual women. Then he would lump everyone into the “slut” category and he would feel better. A pretty destructive trait, Wilkinson knew. But he had learned to accept his negative feelings. But it made it easier for him to be the good Dr. Jekyll again.

But Bridget Rosari provoked him. The term “classy slut” was fitting, Wilkinson thought. He didn’t know exactly what it was about her that annoyed him so much. Probably the way she acted and where she was in life. Her beauty, her sparkling eroticism, her success, her family happiness.

Just the way she entered her luxury apartment excited him. Springy gait, swaying hips, proudly thrown back head, flowing blonde mane. The casual way she threw the keys to her city car into a bowl in the hall, the elegance with which she took off her high-heeled ankle boots. It was unbearable, Wilkinson thought. The erection in his pants proved to him how interesting he found this woman.

In the apartment opposite, Rosari was just throwing her designer jacket over the chair, tripping to the bar and making herself an Aperol spritz. With the drink in her hand, she marched into the bathroom. Decadent slut! Unfortunately, the bathroom was on the other side of the apartment and from where he was, Wilkinson had no chance of observing her any further. He leaned back and put the binoculars aside. He looked at the notes he had made so far:

He had learned that this Rosari had an open relationship with her husband! Bitch! So she had carte blanche to happily and cheekily fuck her way through her life as a manager without having to fear the slightest consequence! That was so unfair! Wilkinson took a deep breath and continued reading.

There was the list of her lovers: A certain Volkov, a filthy rich industrialist. She had him to thank for this penthouse. He just spread his legs and got a luxury apartment worth almost a million in return?! Could such a thing really exist?! Wilkinson bit his lip and read on. There was also this muscle-bound guy called Thorstenson, an investigator in a special police unit. And of course Frederic, a French bon vivant with money to spare. If Wilkinson could believe his usually reliable informants, this charmer had Rosari flown to Paris every now and then. If the rumors were true, he made the fine lady submissive with luxury items from the Parisian fashion scene and then celebrated perverse BDSM parties with her. So this Rosari was currently in an apartment that she had earned by having sex with Volkov. And the clothes that she was probably taking off in the bathroom had been provided by Frederic - in return for a few sexual favors, of course. Wilkinson sighed.

When Bridget returned from the bathroom, Wilkinson was left breathless. Rosari now looked like a dominatrix and he didn’t know where to look first: a tight leather corset pushed her breasts into the light of day, the leather mini was super short and barely reached her buttocks. The black stockings were in stark contrast to the sky-high and simply perverse white over-the-knee boots. When Rosari strutted over to her stereo and bent down to put on an old-fashioned record, Wilkinson stared directly at her juicy pussy. Reflexively, the private detective, who was completely overwhelmed by eroticism, opened his jeans, released his erection and began to masturbate violently.

The fetish lady was just making herself another drink when Wilkinson noticed that an elegant coupe had pulled up. A man got out and that man was Parker. Parker came regularly and Wilkinson had actually already collected all the evidence that his client needed for a successful divorce case. But the expense account was not empty yet and Wilkinson could not get enough of what was regularly going on in the penthouse opposite. So he continued to “investigate”.

Parker reported his visit to the concierge, as always. The concierge informed the penthouse resident by phone, as usual. Bridget took the call from the lobby, opened the apartment door, leaned it against the wall and sat down at the bar in a provocative, lascivious manner in her dominatrix look. She quickly put a long, thin cigarette between her lips, but did not light it. Then she waited for Parker.

This is how Parker’s visits always began. What irony! Mrs. Parker had given up smoking with tough self-discipline because she believed that her nicotine addiction was damaging her marriage! In reality, her husband had a pronounced smoking fetish. So it was no surprise that he beamed from ear to ear when he saw his Bridget sitting at the bar with a cold cigarette in his mouth. Bridget pressed a lighter into his hand as a greeting and then Palmer was allowed to light his fetish queen.

But who was lighting whom here was questionable. Because Bridget did not smoke in everyday life and only did so to throw Parker off his game. The blonde clearly enjoyed the power that she could exert over this man with her cigarette. Nevertheless, Bridget soon put out the half-smoked cigarette, took a big swig of the Aperol, probably to get rid of the taste of smoke, and then gave herself over to her lover’s instinctive impulses. Bridget leaned against the bar with her legs spread and presented Palmer (and Wilkinson) with her plump bottom, wrapped in shiny leather. Two men, Palmer and Wilkinson, grabbed their erect cocks the next moment. Palmer had the privilege of being able to push his cock into the blonde’s wet slit. In the run-down hotel room in the building opposite, the brave private investigator Wilkinson had to make do with masturbation.

After a few minutes, Bridget knelt in front of her - in many ways - standing visitor and indulged him with oral sex. This was the moment when Wilkinson made quite a mess and fell exhausted into his bed. After he had recovered briefly and looked back into the penthouse opposite, Rosari and Palmer had disappeared, much to his dismay. But that was no surprise, since the slut’s bedroom was also on the side facing away from the hotel. Wilkinson took a deep breath. Somehow he was relieved. His guilty conscience now made itself known: after all, he was living out his voyeurism at his client’s expense. He was just as depraved as this Rosari.

Wilkinson lay in his hotel bed for a while and indulged in his daydreams. Then there was a knock on the door. Wilkinson sat up in surprise. No one had ever stood at his door since he started investigating here. “Right away!” Wilkinson shouted and hastily slipped into his jeans. Then he hurried to the door and opened it for his guest. Bridget Rosari was standing in front of the door. Damn, he had been caught by that bitch!

Rosari was wearing the fetish outfit from before and had only thrown on a long, dark coat. The woman looked at him seriously. Wilkinson noticed that she had beautiful, ice-blue eyes. “Did you like what you saw?” the blonde asked. She raised an eyelash, just like Mr. Spock used to do. The question was purely rhetorical. Then, almost without hesitation, Rosari grabbed him by the neck with her carefully manicured hand and pushed him back into his room. “Sit down!” Rosari ordered in an extremely imperious tone. “I think we need to have a chat!”