Home > partners, Personalities, strangers > 1. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

1. Beryl O’Flies – Confidential Investigator

There’s a lot about Beryl O’Flies that makes people notice her. She would never succeed in an undercover job. She would never be able to hide her full bodied breasts, and her waist cinched down to next to nothing then her hips swell out just right. Every man loved to watch her walk away. Her stride was steady and even on long, shapely legs while her butt kept pace with tantalizing undulations.

She was about forty years old when I met her; I was just thirty-two. I was down in the old town square doing touristy things, taking pictures of narrow, cobblestone streets and horse-drawn carriages. Suddenly my arm was grasped from behind and I turned to face this short woman with gorgeous red hair. Deep green eyes radiated out of a beautiful, mature face. There was no time to take in the rest of her.

“Quick, quick, come here,” she said in a low voice. “I need you to shoot someone for me.” I can tell you, I was taken aback.

“Just a minute, lady,” I said.

“I mean take pictures for me. My damn camera’s dead, and I always screw up my shots anyway,” said she, tugging at my arm, pulling me away from the church I wanted to shoot.

“It’s worth money,” she said.

“How much?” I said. I didn’t need any money, but I wanted to follow through with this crazy encounter.

“Plenty,” she said, dragging me sideways. “It depend how good your pictures are.”

“Pictures of what?” said I.

“See that couple over there in front of The Steak Restaurant? I need good, clear photos of them together. They’re waiting for their cars to be brought around. Shoot all you can before they’re gone.”

“But I…,” I tried to argue.

“Shut the fuck up and start shooting, you sonovabitch or I’ll kick you in the balls,” she said.
There was something stimulating in hearing street talk from this petite, mature woman. She was dressed in the latest style and colour with superb taste. The quality of her garments was so good, I could see it. I began shooting telephoto pictures of the paunchy, white-haired man and a shapely young woman who clung to his arm.

Her car arrived first; a red BMW Z3. As it came into sight, the man turned her to him and kissed her hard on the mouth. She held his hand for a moment before she stepped around the car and slid behind the wheel. I panned with her as she pulled away and got a shot of her making a sour face as she wiped her wrist across her mouth. Obviously, she loved her sugar-daddy’s sugar, not so much the daddy part. His white Cadillac Escalade pulled up. He tipped the guy who brought the babe’s car as well as the guy who brought his Caddy.

“Okay,” she said, “let’s see what you got.”

She steered me into MacLorry’s Pub that was right behind us. In a dimly lit alcove she looked through the pictures on the small screen, muttering comments.

“This is okay, she’s holding his arm. Oh, gorgeous! You got them kissing. Great! Oh shit, you got her wiping his slobber off her face. You’re pretty good, y’know,” she said.

“The camera really does it all, you know,” I said.

“And you know where to point it. I think we’re gonna have to do some business together, you and I,” she said. I decided to let things unfold for a while.

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