Categories > Original > Humor
"I need your help," she murmurs, all tremulous, but the way she's lounging on my table certainly says otherwise. As does the slit up her skirt, and the way she crosses and uncrosses her legs on my desk blotter. Black silk stockings and stilettos. I've always been a weak one for good legs.
"My husband..." she breathes, and falls silently, magnificent bosom heaving magnificiently. Since they're also about five inches away at eye level, I say nothing, but thank god that the dingy green screen is pulled all the way down at the office door. Private Eye Sam, it says, in peeling letters, and I've never bothered to change it. People who come to me usually know what they're looking for, and it's usually trouble.
"He's been cheating on me, I know it," she continues breathlessly, and I nod enthusiastically. "He claimed he loved only me -- but, but, I found lipstick on his collar and there were fresh condoms in his wallet!" She inhales and so do I. "How could he?" she wails, and I echo her. He must be cheating on her with supermodels. Plural, because that's the only way they could possible compete with the missus here.
She looks at me with dewy eyes and extracts a cheque from her garter. I swallow. "Get that lying bastard and I'll make it worth your while," she breathes, and trails the edge of that folded paper in a wavy line around my shirt buttons. She taps my belt buckle lightly, then tucks the cheque into my pants with a naughty smile. "You will, won't you, Sam?"
You bet I will, mam, sure as the name is not Sam, I tell her, after we get to know the desk a little better. Your husband will disappear and no one will ever know better, just like Mr Private Eye Sam, who sleeps with the fishies off at the harbour.
"My husband..." she breathes, and falls silently, magnificent bosom heaving magnificiently. Since they're also about five inches away at eye level, I say nothing, but thank god that the dingy green screen is pulled all the way down at the office door. Private Eye Sam, it says, in peeling letters, and I've never bothered to change it. People who come to me usually know what they're looking for, and it's usually trouble.
"He's been cheating on me, I know it," she continues breathlessly, and I nod enthusiastically. "He claimed he loved only me -- but, but, I found lipstick on his collar and there were fresh condoms in his wallet!" She inhales and so do I. "How could he?" she wails, and I echo her. He must be cheating on her with supermodels. Plural, because that's the only way they could possible compete with the missus here.
She looks at me with dewy eyes and extracts a cheque from her garter. I swallow. "Get that lying bastard and I'll make it worth your while," she breathes, and trails the edge of that folded paper in a wavy line around my shirt buttons. She taps my belt buckle lightly, then tucks the cheque into my pants with a naughty smile. "You will, won't you, Sam?"
You bet I will, mam, sure as the name is not Sam, I tell her, after we get to know the desk a little better. Your husband will disappear and no one will ever know better, just like Mr Private Eye Sam, who sleeps with the fishies off at the harbour.
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