Scooby Doo Porn Story: DAPHNE VELMA

The sun beat down like rain on a tin roof. I steered the Mystery Machine, a beat-up VW bus, through the heavy traffic on South 10th Street. I drove, while Shaggy, Velma, Daphne and Scooby-Doo got psyched for our undercover assignment at the convention center. We’re cops, and damn good ones, too. The AC was busted again, so we rolled down the windows for fresh air. Scooby-Doo hung his head out to let his tongue flap in the breeze like a drippy pink dish towel. 

“Rucking hot ray,” he yipped with that wacky speech impediment of his. But he expresses himself well enough for a Great Dane. We all had the same gripe; fucking hot day indeed.

We were working vice around the convention center at S. 10th and Highway 83. Think of the area as the French Quarter with a Mexican accent. Conventioneers in goofy hats, bored after a day of seminars and exhibits, would hit the streets to sample big city sleaze, available 24/7 no cover charge from strip clubs, tattoo parlors, cantinas, rescue missions, curio shops with piñatas and sombreros imported from Mexico, Internet cafes. Depending on what convention was in town, a steady stream of urologists and oilfield-supply salesmen rubbed elbows with hustlers, preachers, aspiring mariachi musicians, dotcommers, chicks with dicks looking for tricks looking for kicks. Our job was to keep the hookers and pushers in line, in part by disrupting demand.

Oh yeah, my name is Fred Jones. Captain Jones, if you please. I’m the handsome one in our crew. If you don’t believe me, just ask me. Tall, blond, sharp dresser. I pack a .38 on my hip and four-and-a-half inches of rock-hard manmeat between my legs. Norville “Shaggy” Rogers is the tall guy with the dinky beard and uncontrollable appetite. Velma Dinkley’s the freckled, brainy partial to orange turtlenecks (Princeton grad, of course) and dorky glasses. Daphne Blake is the looker with the tight dress, long blonde hair, lots of spunk, an ass that could stop a sundial. Scooby-Doo is our canine support, a crotch-sniffing killing machine when he’s on duty. He’s just a big puppy around his friends. And he’s got a great sense of humor. I crack up every time he pins me against a wall and starts humping my leg, yelping, “Scoooobie dooobie dooo!” 

We pulled into the Denny’s parking lot across S. 10th from the convention center, next to El Bano Loco Motor Hotel. That’s one of the places where the local pavement princesses like to take their new friends. We work decoy to put the fear of the Lord into tourists, write them a summons, chew ’em out for spreading disease and decay, then tell ’em to zip up and ship out or the next time they’ll spend a memory-making night in the jug. 

“The stale baloney sandwiches are the BEST part of the experience there,” I warn them. “And God help you if you drop the soap.” By that point the guys are so rattled they don’t do anything riskier than spritz their fajitas with three-alarm salsa.

By the time I pulled the Mystery Machine into Denny’s, Daphne and Velma were dressed to thrill. Daphne wore a tight maroon halter top with her boobs peeking out the sides, like naughty kids peeking around the corner of a house. White pedal-pushers hugged her hips and had her panty lines screaming “Hey look me over!” She wore open-toe spike heels, which in no way impeded her speed at chasing the bad guys. A silver Star of David pendant dangling in the Rio-Grande-sized valley between her breasts concealed a microphone. A small purse held her badge and service pistol, along with cuffs and cosmetics. 

“You got the makings of a swell weekend in your purse,” I once told her, hoping to stoke her interest in some one-on-one quality time, which had never happened.

“The makings of a swell weekend are in my panties, not my purse, but thanks for the compliment,” she said sweetly. “And I’m washing my hair. Maybe later, big guy.”

Velma could never match Daphne’s blinding blondeness. But Velma’s own undercover M.O. worked just as well. She created dress-up characters – hot to trot cheerleader, rancher’s daughter in from the sticks – that appealed to the jaded johns seeking something exotic. 

Today she was Cowgirl Velma, topped by a straw cowboy hat with a flouncy feather wedged into its calico band. Her freckles seemed to pulsate in the shade beneath the brim. She wore a rhinestone-buttoned cowboy shirt with appliqué cactus on the front. Only two button held the shirt closed, with the shirt tails gathered together and knotted tight across her ribcage, so the bottoms of breasts pressed against the cottony material. Next came the cutoff jeans that barely covered her ass cheeks, then – this drove ’em wild – polished pink Justin boots that almost reached her knees. Never underestimate the sexual power of accessories. Combined with the tiny shorts, the boots made her look incredibly exposed. 

“OK, officers, you know the drill,” I said when we parked. You’ll go work S. 10th in front of the Bano Loco. We’ve got you wired and Shaggy and I’ll monitor the conversations from here in the Mystery Machine. When you get a bite, go to room 34 – we’ve got the usual cameras and audio there. Two patrolmen will be in room 35 to make the busts.” 

“Speaking of bust, how does my costume look?” asked Velma, retying her cowboy shirt to it hugged her even tighter. I gulped. I never realized her boobs were so, so, cantelope-ish, round and firm and tan, fresh from the harvest. Only two little pearly buttons separated me from all those sexual nutrients. Get a grip, Fred, I thought.

“Your costume should work well, Officer Velma,” I said in my most official voice, then winked.

“If it makes your wee-wee hard, I know it’s working,” she said.

Staring at my crotch, Scooby woofed, “Roner city!” Boner city. He was right.

Shaggy stroked his chin pubes thoughtfully and eyed Daphne and Velma in their cock-rocking glory. “Boy, I’m gonna need a Scooby snack real soon, looking at you gals,” he said, his frustrated sex urge sublimated into endless munching (I took a psychology class to get my gold shield, so I know all about sublimation and oedipal complexes and penis envy). 

“Boys, we’re all business, you know that,” joked Daphne, putting her arm around Velma, her hand slipping into the cowboy shirt to squeeze Velma’s nipple into hardness. “Right, Patrolbabe Velma?”

The skin beneath Velma’s freckles reddened. She closed her eyes and bit her lower lip. “Daph, baby, I’m gonna pay you if you keep that up. My kootch is about to jump out of my britches and run around in circles it’s so happy,” she moaned. Acting? Real? “OK, I’m ready. I can’t get too turned on right now – that’s against the hooker’s code of ethics. We’ve got to look and act authentic, or we’ll blow our cover.” 

“You can blow my cover,” I said, without thinking, the kind of comment that could get me hauled before the diversity and tolerance screws, but I didn’t care. 

“Oh, Fred, but your cover is so huge, it would take both of us!” chortled Daphne, applying another layer of fire-engine red lipstick. “And you’d mess my make-up! OK, Velma, let’s go shake some twat out there and see what comes running.” 

“I’ve got to tell you, Shaggy,” I mused as we settled behind the video monitor as Velma and Daphne toddled off down S. 10th Street, a hot, salt-watery breeze off the Gulf fluffing Daphne’s hair. “Those are two dedicated policewomen.” 

“I don’t know about you Fred, but I could use some pizza about now. What about you, Scoob old pal?” asked Shaggy, throwing some greasy potato chips down his gullet.

“Rizza good, ritch retter,” shrugged Scooby. Pizza good, bitch better. Poor guy, I thought, his sex life must be going to the dogs, too. But he’d better stay away from my leg, I thought.

“OK, head’s up you skanks,” I said, peering out the darkened window of the Mystery Machine. Daphne and Velma had positioned themselves in front of El Bano Loco, next to the newspaper boxes. They laughed, waved to truckers hauling carrots and onions up 10th after crossing the river, and before they attracted the interest of two guys in short haircuts and whistles around their necks – no doubt in town for the football coaches’ convention. “Tall one’s named Randall, the short one’s Bobby,” I whispered to Shaggy, licking the potato grease off his fingers.

“All wrong, hombre. You’re thinking 70s coaches. Haven’t you heard about equal opportunity? Tall one’s Luis, short one is, ummm, Brock?”

“BROCK?” I almost shouted. “No football coach in the state’s named Brock. That’s a band director’s name.” 

Shaggy and I had an ongoing contest to guess the names of perps. It can be done, if you look at enough goonies trying to score some twat. “Six pack of Corona says neither of them is named anything like Brock.”

“Deal.” 

The two johns strolled toward Daphne and Velma. From the Mystery Machine I could see they both had boners just from the prospect of taco time on the border. Yessirreebob, those good old boys were snorting up the aroma of some mighty fine flesh enchiladas.

So they thought. Really, they were just greaseballs who didn’t think anybody was looking while they cheated on their wives, girlfriends and, given how many of them spouted off about their status as role models, their students. Sometimes, as I watched the guys make their moves, I’d think, “Christ, just go back to your hotel and whack off to a copy of Juggs, for Pete’s sake.” But they never did, and the boys, girls and dog of the Mystery Machine had to clean up the mess.

Shaggy, Scooby and I heard the deal go down. The two coaches were already “un poco borracho” – a little drunk.

“Well, hello, little lady,” said the tall one with the careful tone of a drunk trying to sound sober. “Mighty hot out here today.”

“Not as hot as on the inside,” said Daphne.

“Inside of what?”

Daphne leaned over and patted Velma’s crotch.

“Yowchies,” she said in a silly voice. “That’s what’s hot.”

The little guy licked his lips.

“Maybe we can cool things off for you two gals.”

“There’s air conditioning at El Bano Loco,” said Daphne.

“Cold enough to make your titties hard,” said the tall one, a statement more than a question. What a crude jerk.

“I don’t need no AC for that to happen,” said Daphne.

“Maybe some cold cash would make it happen faster.”

“Now you’re talking, stud.”

Before they entered Room 34, I told Shaggy, “Switch on cameras two and three.” See, we had the hotel room completely wired for sound and video, high quality color, none of this fuzzy ATM observation junk tech. Switching from camera to camera, we could record evidence and keep the girls safe. The system also had an intercom for two-way communications.

The coaches discovered the only things hard were the steel cuffs slapped on their wrists by the two cops who burst into the room from an interior door up our signal. Daphne and Velma didn’t even get their shirts totally unbuttoned before the guys were cuffed and babbling it was all a mistake, too much to drink, they were doing research, please don’t tell our wives. They got the royal verbal reaming, summons that would be dismissed and erased if they stayed out of trouble in our fair city – permanently – and their names were Dennis and Dicky. So, Shaggy and I both struck out. No Brocks and no Coronas this time.

As day faded to evening, the sun slipped behind the towering Gulf Coast clouds in the west, fluffy piles of cumulus that were pink, amber, orange. The clouds sailed west as darkness spread over our town and the surrounding ocean of mesquite and cactus. Daphne and Velma reeled in more fish, the prowl-car boys netting the catch. I stared out a window of the Mystery Machine and picked out shapes in the clouds. I sighed. 

A huge paw fell gently on my shoulder. Scooby-Doo sensed my restlessness and the longing behind it. “Runts in the rouds?” he woofed.

“Yeah, cunts in the clouds,” I replied. “Here, there, everywhere, but never for me.”

“Rough ruck, baby,” he replied.

“Just a dry patch,” I said. “Thanks for the rupport, uh, support.” Yikes, I was starting to sound like Scooby. Next thing you know I’ll be licking my balls in public.

After four hours of fishing our shift was ending. No more fluffy cunts sailed through the sky, and my attention turned elsewhere. “I could sure use some food,” said Shaggy, as he finished a bag of onion nachos. “Grab some dinner at Denny’s?”

“Sure, Shag. Scooby?”

“Ruckin’ A,” said Scooby. 

Daphne and Velma drifted back from El Bano Loco, looking none the worse for their pavement pounding. In four hours they had bagged 35 johns, generated summons worth almost $4,000 for the municipal coffers, and barely broke a sweat. They’d been doing the work, but Shaggy and Scooby and I were the tired ones, after being cramped in the Mystery Machine doing observation. Daphne and Velma got to dress up, go undercover, swing their bodalious asses on the street, while we were stuck with . . . management. 

“Care to join us?” I asked them as we stood outside the Mystery Machine. “Always good grub at Denny’s.”

“We’ll pass,” said Velma, tilting her cowboy hat back. “We’ll grab a bite with the prowl-car boys at Tito’s Tacoteria.” Tito’s Tacoteria was the best Mexican food joint north of the border, a favorite of tourists and locals alike.

“In those outfits?” Shaggy asked, eyeing their nipples poking through the shirts. “You want to give the winter tourists from Iowa a coronary?”

Daphne wrapped her arm around Velma’s neck and sucked on her earlobe. “Sure! Let ’em die hard and happy!” she said, grinding her thinly covered cunt against Velma’s bare thigh. 

“C’mon Fred, my stomach hasn’t stopped growling all day,” said Shaggy, pulled on my shirt. Scooby poked my ass with his paw for emphasis.

“OK,” I said, locking the Mystery Machine. “Let’s meet back here in 90 minutes then head to HQ to file our reports.”

The good people at Denny’s gave us our corner booth, so Scooby could stretch out on the long, curving orange couch. The service was fast, and we were out in an hour, unusually fast for one of our dinners. After a spin through the streets, we circled back to the Mystery Machine, parked in the Denny’s lot. We were a half-hour early. 

We figured Daphne and Velma would return later. We were, after all, early. “Man, those leftovers sure smell good. I could go for some of the refried bean and rice,” said Shaggy. 

“Food sure must have been different when you were on patrol in Kandahar, hmm, Scoob old buddy? Special Forces treat their top dog right?” I asked. Scooby’d been called up for Reserve duty.

“Rood rucked rig-time,” Scooby-Doo complained. 

“Sorry to hear that,” I said, “Hey, when I was doing that peace-keeper gig in Bosnia . . . “

Before I could finish we saw images move into on view on the monitor, still covering room 34 at El Bano Loco. Three of the cameras were turned off, but one remained on, located at waist level beside the room’s TV. “Cleaning lady,” I shrugged.

“Rook closer,” said Scooby, his razor-clawed paw tapping the 25-inch color monitor. “Turn on all the cameras, pull back on the sweep view,” I told Shaggy, our tech whiz.

Another view popped onto the big screen. Who had walked into the room but – Daphne and Velma. “Don’t they know their shift is over?” I asked. “I hope they don’t have a line of johns waiting outside. Let me call and tell them we’re already back here.”

“Un momentito,” I said. “Police work doesn’t seem like what’s on their minds.”

The girls’ voices jumped into the Mystery Machine. “Gosh, Velma, too bad the prowl-car boys got that emergency call. I’m glad we could do take-out. I’ve never been in this room except on duty. You know, for a sleazy border joint, it’s not too uncomfortable at all,” said Daphne. “I love the pictures of the kids with the big eyes.” They took containers out of plastic shopping bags and put them on a night table next to the king-sized bed.

“No, I’d much rather be here than at Tito’s, especially since our shift is over,” said Velma, pulling out a bottle. I couldn’t read the label.

“Here, I have a surprise since it’s the weekend,” Velma added. “A bottle of Mexico’s finest, Mezcal de Oaxaca.”

Daphne’s eyes widened. “You mean the booze with the worm in it? How thoughtful! We’re going to have a party!”

“As long as we want,” said Daphne. “We’ll call the boys later and say we’re delayed and we’ll catch up on the paperwork tomorrow. They’re cool on that stuff.” She was right. In undercover work, odd bits of work and leads always crop up and demand attention, so we’re used to going off in strange directions. 

“Drink?” asked Velma, producing two shot glasses, the size of rinse cups in dentists’ offices. Our girl planned ahead. 

“If you please,” said Daphne.

After Velma poured they did a little toast. “Salud,” said Velma. “L’chaim,” said Daphne.

“Who’ll get the worm?” I asked as they sat side by side on the bed, its sheets still pulled back from the day of trolling.

“I bet that worm would sure taste good on a pizza,” said Shaggy.

“That drink is making me feel . . . very nice,” said Velma, leaning back against the head board of the bed. “I’m feeling, ummm, relaxed.”

“I’m not,” said Daphne, pouting.

“Oh?” Velma looked at her, suddenly sober. “You don’t feel well? Are you uncomfortable with anything?”

“I feel fine, but after a day of playing dress-up and driving Fred and Shaggy crazy – you saw how turned on they got, didn’t you? – I feel more hot and bothered than nice and relaxed.” 

Velma turned on the bed. In the Mystery Machine, Fred, Shaggy and Scooby heard the bed springs squeak, saw the light flash off Velma’s glasses. “You know, Daphne, the more you talk, the more I feel the same way.” She paused for a heartbeat. “Daphne, could you suck my earlobe again?”

“Love to.” Daphne slid toward Velma, so their thighs touched. She put one hand on the side of Velma’s head, drawing the smaller woman toward her. Bending slightly, Daphne brushed her lips against Velma’s ear, running her tongue around the outside. Velma closed her eyes as the tongue sent lightning bolts from her ear to her breasts to her cunt. Daphne rolled the earlobe around her lips, tugging on it like it was a nipple, using her other hand to trace circles on Velma’s thigh. Her fingers wandered the sensitive border between the cut-off blue jeans and the bare smooth flesh.

“Jinkies, you know how to suck an earlobe,” breathed Velma. “Can an earlobe get a hard-on?”

“I’ve always thought earlobes were bonus clits that guys can actually locate,” giggled Daphne.

“We could invent a line of vibrators for ears,” mused Velma. “They could combine sexual gratification and fashion in a scientifically sound manner. Think about earrings that sent electrical pulses into the earlobe . . .”

“Velma?”

Yeah, Daph?”

“How about we just fuck and think about the commercial implications of earlobe sucking later?”

Velma abruptly shifted. Now Daphne looked surprised. “Hot and bothered, you say?” She leaned over and kissed Daphne on the lips, lightly, not a sloppy smooch but connection that mounted in intensity. “I specialize in hot and bothered.”

Their lips stayed connected while Velma brushed the backs of her hands over Daphne’s chest, once, twice, three times. On the last pass she reached behind Daphne to untie the knot of her maroon and white halter. The fabric fell free, like a curtain rippling over a stage setting of Daphne’s curves.

“Why, Daphne Blake and Velma Dinkley! Who would have known you weren’t just acting out there today,” I said as Shaggy, Scooby-Doo and I watched the monitor. I flicked the view from one camera to another. “They sure know how to end a shift.”