I Spy

Chapter 1

It was cold.

It was dark.

And I was alone.

I was hiding in a dumpster in the parking lot of a grocery story at 11:25 PM and balancing precariously on a heap of eggshells and rotten veggies - I didn't want to think about what other surprises might be lurking below. But I'd been there for so long, that my nose had grown accustomed to the vile stench; my legs however had gone into spasms from the awkward crouching position I'd been maintaining for the last two hours.

It was freezing, my teeth were chattering, my nose was running and there was a family of rats nibbling dangerously close to my ankle.

But I love it!

This is what I live for.

Where I come alive.

When every single one of my senses is alert, tingling and on fire.

For me, Lizzy Brown, of 'I Spy Investigators', this is more than just a job. It's a calling. Catching lying, cheating husbands in the act, with their hands in, on, under, up and around the proverbial cookie jar, is my life. My trusty camera never lies and I always get my man. My phone rings constantly with desperate women seeking the truth. And the truth is what I give them. Truth is my currency.

And the number one truth is this; where there is smoke, there is usually fire. I always tell my clients that if they're hiring me, their husbands are probably cheating. Nine times out of ten I've caught him in the sleazy motel with his secretary pinned up against the wall (so clichéd), in the bar with his hands up the hooker's skirt (so trashy), bent over the chair and spanking his student (so kinky) and one time in Paris celebrating his one year anniversary with his mistress while the wife and kids were home alone (so devastating).

I've seen it all.

Once, a client thought her husband was cheating (the usual) so I began surveillance on him and got the surprise of my life. I'd followed him into what looked like an old abandoned warehouse (immediate red flag). But when I slipped inside, it soon became apparent that it was some kind of movie set, and a really cheap ass crappy one at that.

A pink and orange paisley lounge suit took up most of the room. A bilious green rug plastered with bizarre shaped stains covered the floor and wood paneled walls held generic motel pictures of flamingos and sunsets. The whole place was drenched in hot, bright light and there was a strange smell in the air that I couldn't quite put my finger on.

And then, without any kind of warning, a guy walked in and dropped his pants. And just like that, I was staring at a rather large male appliance. Let me elaborate....

... IT WAS HUGE.

Like an arm-wrestlers arm. An Anaconda. A Boing 747. I was just starting to feel sorry for the poor guy; shame, there's no way it's physically possible for him to have sex with that. It would never fit....

Oh no.

It does fit.

Yup.

There it goes.

Ah-Ha.

And it looks like it fits pretty well too.

Into several people in fact. At the same time.

It was glaringly obvious that this wasn't an ordinary movie set. And the leading man? The star of the show? Yip you guessed it, dear hubby with the huge dong.