A Literary Seduction

A Literary Seduction
by Gaucho ©

She came through my door in the early afternoon wearing a thin, summer print that flowed over her body like water. She was young and on the petite side, a bit smaller than I normally favor them, but her hair was long and the dress hinted at enough flesh to convince me that I wouldn’t be picking any bones out of my teeth when I went for my dinner.

She was pretty, too, but her pained expression reminded me of a mouthful of bad scotch and her attempt at a smile vanished faster than a jackrabbit on hump night. A small purse dangled from one arm and in the other she clutched a sheath of papers so tightly they might have been the Dead Sea Scrolls.

I wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry at the sight in front of me, but it had been a slow month and I couldn’t afford to be picky about a potential client. I stood up and gave her my best smile, the one I usually reserve for the cops. “Welcome to the Conrad Detective Agency,” I said, extending my hand.

She reached for it and the sheath of papers slipped from her arms and splashed onto the floor in front of my desk. She groaned and bent down to pick them up, giving me a glimpse of cinnamon skin that was definitely choice. She gathered up the papers into her arms and stood, catching sight of my battered old Smith-Corona.

“Oh,” she said, staring at it. Her gaze shifted to me. “Are you a writer?”

My cheeks felt a little hot. “Yes,” I admitted. I quickly added, “When I’m not solving cases, that is.”

Her eyes went back to the anachronism on my file cabinet. It held a blank sheet of paper in it, kept there for those moments when inspiration struck. Like all blank sheets, it looked lonely. I’m not sure what I expected, maybe for her to ask me what I wrote about. That’s what people usually asked, if they asked at all. But she surprised me. She set the papers down and said:

“Writers are such sick fucks, aren’t they?”

The words came out in a rush, as though she’d been holding them back through sheer force of will and now expelled them onto my desk, the way a bulimic might toss up a slice of pizza. But if she meant to shock, she must have been disappointed in my reaction, or lack of one. The truth was, I couldn’t argue with her statement.

“What I mean is,” she went on, “writers write these stories. And then you read them and before you know it, you’re sucked in. And pretty soon, unless you’re very careful, you don’t know what time it is, or what day it is, or where you are, or even who you are. All you know is that you’ve got to read that next line, and that next page. You’ve got to know how it ends.” She shook her head. “Now what kind of a person can make you do that?”

“A truly sick fuck,” I agreed, laughing. “And, unfortunately, there’s not enough of them to go around. Or haven’t you checked out the Best-Seller lists lately?” I leaned forward. “But when you find one that you can’t stop reading, doesn’t that make you the sick fuck?”

“I guess so,” she laughed, the blush coarsening her delicate features. “But it’s still the writer’s fault.”

“Touché.” I gestured to the jumble of papers she clutched. “Now then, what can I do for you, Mrs. –“ She hesitated a moment, perhaps wondering how I knew she was married, when the rock she sported on her left hand had to be worth at least a couple years rent on my office.

“Vawdrey,” she said finally, “Claire Vawdrey.”

“Now then, Mrs. Vaw—“

“Claire, please.”

“Claire,” I repeated, motioning for her to sit down. “What can I do for you?”

She sat, the cotton fabric of her dress embracing her like a lover. “Mr. Conrad, I need your help.” She kept her eyes averted, which was fine with me because I couldn’t help staring at her squirming breasts. Finally, she thrust the papers at me and said, “Perhaps it would be simpler if you just looked at these first.”

I picked up the pages and ruffled through them without looking at the contents. They weren’t numbered but a casual guess put them around fifty. The lines were double-spaced and the uniformity of the lettering told me they’d been inputted on a computer or word-processor and then printed out on a laser printer, using a standard font. Probably Times New Roman, from the look of it.

I flipped back to page one and read about halfway down the page before skipping to the next page. I read most of that page and then skipped forward again, three or four pages this time. After a few more minutes of skimming, I put the folder down. Her gaze was expectant.

“Not bad,” I admitted, “if you like that sort of thing. The descriptions are vivid, the sentence structure varied and easy to follow; offhand, I’d say whoever wrote this has the makings of a very sick fuck indeed. Of course, like most everything in the genre, it tends to get repetitive. There are only so many ways you can say ‘fuck’ and ‘suck’ and ‘come’.” Her eyes held steady on my face. “Why don’t you tell me what’s bothering you, Claire?”

“Well, Mr. Conrad –“

“Joe.” I held up the papers. “After reading this, I think we can dispense with the formalities, don’t you?”

“Joe.” Her blush returned. “What’s bothering me is what’s on those pages.”

“Why?”

She took a deep breath and I expected another torrent of words, but again she surprised me. “I suppose you’ve already guessed that I am the woman being written about.”

I nodded. The descriptions were not only vivid, but judging from the way her body bunched and trembled beneath her dress, extremely accurate.

“Isn’t that reason enough?”

“Not necessarily. I know a number of women who, while they might not care for the graphic nature of the material, would love to be admired the way this author clearly admires you.”

“That’s just it, don’t you see? I don’t know who the author is! And even if I did, I’m not interested in this kind of admiration.” She put up her hand. “And before you ask, the answer is no, I haven’t done any of the things this person has written about me.”

“What does your husband think about this? Or does he know?”

“Yes, he knows. I have no secrets from him. He is just as perplexed as I am. In fact…” Her voice trailed off.

“Yes?”

“This is going to sound crazy, but at first I thought he was writing them and I pretty much accused him of it. He swore it wasn’t him and we got into a terrible argument, the first real fight we’ve had in over a year of marriage. He became so angry that I backed off, but I still thought he’d written them. I mean, the pages came out of our printer, for God’s sake, so who else could it be?”

“Wait a minute.” I held up my hand, stopping her. “The pages came out where?”

“Our printer. We have an office upstairs with a PC and a laser printer.”

“So whoever did this used your printer to print out these pages?”

“That’s right.”

“But it wasn’t your husband?”

“No, it wasn’t.”

I suddenly felt like Alice, trying desperately to crawl my way out of a rabbit hole. “How can you be so sure?”

“Well, as I said, I thought it was him, too. But he was so adamant! And I wanted to believe him, truly I did. I mean, over and above everything else, if my husband were lying to me, if he had written these pages about me, it would be so out of character for the man I know – the man I met and fell in love with – it would mean I really didn’t know him at all. And that’s kind of a scary thought, isn’t it?”

I nodded again, but mentally I shook my head. In my experience, people were always capable of surprising you, especially those closest to you. But something told me that wasn’t what she’d come in to hear.

“So one night I decided to find out. After we’d both gone to bed, I made sure he was asleep and then I crept out of bed and went upstairs to his study. His computer was off and there were no papers on his desk. I checked to make sure the house was locked and then I spent the night sitting up in our bedroom reading. My husband never woke up; in fact he hardly moved the entire night, he was so deep in sleep. But in the morning, when I went into his office, there were several new pages about me lying in his printer.”

“Is that when they usually show up? In the mornings?”

“Yes.”

“Was his computer turned on?”

“No, it wasn’t. Is that important?”

I shook my head. “Not necessarily.” I pondered the possibility of remote access. “Claire, does your computer have a modem, Internet access, email, all that sort of thing?”

“Why, yes. Doesn’t everybody?”

I stared off past her for a moment. Without question, it was possible for someone to remotely program her husband’s computer to turn on at a certain time, say the middle of the night, and receive an email containing the new pages. Someone with decent PC knowledge could probably program it to print out the pages as well. The question was why?

Was it some pervert’s idea of a love letter?

I decided to go back to basics. I brought my attention back to Claire, who was staring at her lap. The swell of her breasts caught my eye and perhaps because of the subject matter at hand, her nipples were quite prominent. One of the pages I’d read described how sensitive they were and how she loved to have them pinched and pulled during sex. I wondered, did her husband know that?

“Claire, how long had you been married before these pages started showing up?” The question seemed to startle her out of some reverie and it was a moment before she answered.

“About six months, I think.”

“Can you think of anyone – an old boyfriend, a past lover, maybe even a spurned one – that might have reason to write these and then somehow send them to you, maybe to try and win you back or at least cause some problems with your marriage?”

She thought for a few moments and then shook her head. “No,” she said. “There’s no one.” When I said nothing, she continued, “Look, Mr. Con— Joe, I wasn’t a virgin when I met my husband, but I hadn’t slept around a lot, either. Believe me, if there were someone that I’d been with in the past who desired me like this, I’d know about it.”

“A stranger, then? Or a co-worker? An acquaintance who might harbor some secret fantasies about you?”

“No. At least, I don’t think so. God, this is so frustrating!” Her mouth twisted around the words, as though each one were a slice of lemon.

“Claire, if this stuff bothers you so much,” I held up the sheath of papers, “why not just throw them out? Why read them at all?”

She leaned forward then, her nipples resting on my desk like fingers on a windowpane. “I’ve tried, but I can’t!” She stared at me intently. “I read the first pages I got with a mixture of surprise and disgust. I couldn’t believe that someone would actually write things like that, much less write them about me. Well, since then I’ve discovered that there are a whole lot of people writing things just like this. Did you know there are sites on the Internet that have pages and pages of this stuff on them?”

She shook her head. “Maybe I’ve led a sheltered life, but I’d always thought pornography was dirty pictures or movies. I’d never read anything like this before. And to have it be about me! Not some made-up, fantasy girl, but me!”

“And that intrigued you? Made you want to read more?”

She looked away suddenly, as though deciding she’d said too much. When she spoke again, she wouldn’t look at me. “Maybe. I don’t know. All I do know is that each time I told myself that I wouldn’t pay any more attention to it and then the next set of pages would show up and I’d find myself reading them, unable to stop, needing to find out what was next, how it all would end. I still do. I have to find out who’s doing this!”

She looked at me then, smiling ruefully. “I guess you could say this sick fuck, whoever he is, has gotten me hooked.”

“Which brings us back to square one.”

She shook her head. “I told you it couldn’t possibly be my husband.”

I smiled at her. “You know, a very famous detective once said, ‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth’.”

I stared at her a few moments, thinking, deciding. I stood up. “Claire, I’ll tell you what I think. I think you need to go home and have a long talk with your husband. Something tells me that the two of you have a few…issues to work out.”

Claire got to her feet. “Oh, no. Mr. Conrad!” She reached over and grabbed my hand. “I can’t do that. I just can’t! He got so angry when I accused him of writing those pages; I thought he was going to leave me. Please, Mr. Conrad! Joe. I need your help.”

My instincts were telling me not to take this case. On the surface it seemed simple enough; find the perv, identify him and let Claire decide what she wanted to do about it. But experience had taught me that cases were rarely as simple as they first appeared. Like people, they had a nasty habit of shape shifting as they went along, changing in unexpected and often frightening ways.

Besides, if my suspicions were correct, Claire already had a pretty good idea who’d been writing these letters to her. That she wouldn’t admit to it didn’t surprise or bother me. Detectives rank right alongside cops and priests in that people rarely tell us the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help them God. The real question, as always, was why.

But, like I said, it had been a slow month and it was her money. I agreed to help her and we made our arrangements. She left a few minutes later, a little lighter in the pocketbook but smiling as though she hadn’t a care in the world. A few seconds after that, my secretary Max opened the adjoining door and poked her head through.

“So, do we have a client?” she asked. I waved the cash at her. “Oh, goodie!” she squealed, bouncing her way into the room. “Now I won’t have to give the landlord a blowjob when he comes by next week.” She snatched the money out of my hands and started rubbing it over her face. I couldn’t help but grin as I watched her.

“I thought you liked giving the landlord a blowjob.”

“I do, silly.” She slapped me playfully with the cash. “But you don’t want him to know that, do you?” I nodded in understanding. Everyone should have a secretary like mine. “Besides,” she added, “if he knew I enjoyed sucking him off, it would take away half his fun. Landlords like that feeling of power, you know?”

“Now then, boss.” She stood next to me, the warmth of her hip like a balm on my shoulder. “What’s the job?”

I pointed to the pages strewn on my desk. “Our young lady friend has an anonymous admirer she’s not completely comfortable with. She wants us to find out who the author is.” Max leaned over to take a closer look, her breasts sweeping the wood like a pair of helium-filled dust rags.

“Oh, are these love letters? I am such a sucker for romance.” She read about a quarter of the way down the first page and then stopped, licking her lips. She glanced at me and then finished the page, quickly going on to the next. “Holy shit! Who wrote this, the bastard step-child of Larry Flynt and Bob Guccione?”

“Interesting stuff, isn’t it?”

“Interesting? Wrong by half, boss-man.” She flipped through a few more of the pages. “More like lewd and lasfuckingcivious to me.” She turned to me suddenly, the warmth of her hip replaced by the heat in her eyes. “Wait a minute.” Her twins were pointing at me, loaded and ready. “You wouldn’t be looking to take part of our fee in trade, would you?”

“Now, Maxie, it’s not like that. She’s just a client.”

“You read these, huh?”

“You can borrow them if you wa--.”

“Oh, no you don’t, Mr. Writer Detective Man.” She leaned over me, her hand reaching down to cup my balls. “You know the first rule of writing.” Her breath scorched my face.

“Show, don’t tell.” Her tongue plunged into my mouth.

The following evening found me sitting in the darkness of the upstairs office at Claire’s house. I wasn’t sure just what I expected to find but going to the source of the problem seemed like a good place to start.

At her insistence, she’d waited until her husband was in bed asleep before letting me in. She explained that he knew nothing about her visit to me and she was afraid he’d think the whole thing foolish and a waste of money. She told me she’d ‘handle’ it if her husband woke and found me there. Before I had a chance to ask her what handling it meant, I was following her upstairs to the office where she left me, making me promise to come wake her if anything happened.

I made myself comfortable on a spare couch while my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The night dragged on and the moon rose, dousing the room with its ghostly light. I thought about the letters Claire had dumped on my desk. They were love letters of a sort, written with a passion and intensity that made the words jump off the page at you. Strangely enough, it made me wonder about my own writing and the level of commitment and emotion I brought to it.

Just who – or what – did we become when we wrote? Was it some sort of compulsion that made us write down what were often our darkest and most intimate thoughts for others to read? I’d written stories ever since I was a young boy and it had never occurred to me to wonder why I did it. For me, writing had always been as natural, and as necessary, as breathing.

In this case, however, the writing focused exclusively on Claire, describing her in situations and performing acts that she said she’d never done. Were they strictly fantasies or were they something more?

Were they an invitation?

Lost in thought I was startled by a sound from the desk. The computer had been booted and the monitor cast a pale glow while waiting for the operating system to engage. Sitting on the other side of the desk, caught squarely in the unintentional spotlight, sat Claire’s husband. I smiled grimly, feeling the kind of rush you only get when proven right about something.

He paid no attention to me; instead he stared at the monitor, waiting patiently for the word processing program to open up. I realized suddenly that I was caught, with no way out of the room without him seeing me. I could sit there until he noticed me or hope that he became so absorbed in his writing I might be able to slip out unseen. I didn’t like either of those options.

I got up and walked over to the desk. I’ll be the first one to admit that I wasn’t sure what I was going to say. The situation was awkward, to say the least, and nothing came to mind that wouldn’t sound completely lame. But before I could extend my hand and say anything, he turned and looked right at me. The words died in my throat. The look he gave me, not angry, not surprised, not anything but indifferent, sent a chill through me, as though someone had just walked on my grave.

After a few moments he turned back to the computer screen. Without looking, his fingers found the keyboard and he began typing. I stared at him, unsure of what to do. For some reason, the only thing running through my mind was Claire’s admonition about writers. We were sick fucks, without question, and this one apparently had no time for the social graces, even with a stranger suddenly appearing in his study in the small hours of the night. Unable to think of anything else, I backed quietly out of the room, shutting the door behind me.

I tiptoed down the hall to Claire’s bedroom, thinking again how little we really know about other people, even those we think we know the best. As I’d suspected, her husband had been the one writing the erotic stories about her. So what if he didn’t want to own up to it? Secrets in relationships were a dime a dozen and I’d wager that 9 out of 10 marriages had more secrets than the Catholic Church had buried in the Vatican.

At that moment, however, the why didn’t matter. That was a domestic issue, one for Claire to work out with her husband. For me, all that mattered was that I had proof, proof I was now about to show her. It sounded almost like a game of Clue; the husband, in the office, using the computer. Case closed.

At least that’s what I thought until I opened the door to Claire’s bedroom and saw her husband lying in the bed beside her.

I stared at him in shock, feeling the gooseflesh crawl in waves over my skin. I raced back down the hall and opened the door to the office, fully expecting to find it empty, to realize that what I’d seen was just a dream, a mirage, or a hallucination of some kind. But there he was, typing away. I saw that in my absence he had completed almost half a page and I couldn’t help but envy his speed. It often took me a whole day to be satisfied with a paragraph or two. Of course, I didn’t have his inspiration either.

Back in the bedroom, I stared again at the sleeping man I had just seen typing away on the computer. Without question, they were one and the same. My mind reeled from the sense of vertigo you get when you’re in a tall building and you get a sudden glimpse of just how high up you are. I had no explanation for it. Twins? Clones? I didn’t believe in ghosts but for a moment even the thought of a doppelganger crossed my mind.

I touched Claire lightly on the shoulder. Her eyes opened immediately and I wondered how much, if any, she’d slept. I held my finger to my lips and she followed me into the hallway. On this night, at least, Claire had dressed for comfort, wearing a loose-fitting nightshirt that barely hinted at the sumptuous curves beneath it.

“What is it? What did you find?”

Her eyes were wide, perhaps because of my agitated expression. I stared at her for a moment, at a loss for words. I glanced quickly at the office then back to her bedroom. Finally I asked, “Claire, is that your husband in there?”

“What?” She looked at me as though I’d suddenly grown a third eye in the middle of my forehead. “Of course, it’s my husband. Who did you think it was?”

I led her to the office and opened the door. I stepped back so that she could have an unobstructed view of the room. “Then who,” I asked, pointing to the desk, “is that?”

Her hand went to her mouth as she saw the figure sitting at the desk. She moved into the room slowly, the look on her face a mixture of horror and curiosity. She stopped at the desk, her eyes darting back and forth between the man and his words as they appeared on the monitor. She spoke his name and his fingers paused at the keyboard. He gave her the same bland, indifferent expression he’d given me and went back to his typing. She said his name again, sharper this time, and she started around the desk as though she meant to grab him.

I caught her by the arm, stopping her. “Claire, wait!” I motioned that the two of us should leave the room. “Come with me.” With more than a little reluctance, she followed me out.

When we were downstairs, I said, “I don’t know about you, but I could use a drink.” She gestured to a cabinet in the corner of the dining room and muttered that I should help myself. I opened the cabinet and whistled softly. Whatever else her husband had, he had good taste in booze. I asked Claire if she wanted one and from the living room I heard a soft yes. I grabbed a bottle of 30-year old single malt and two whiskey glasses, pouring myself a liberal dollop and her a more conservative one.

I closed the cabinet, leaving the bottle accessible, and carried the glasses into the other room where she sat hunched on the sofa with her face buried in her hands. Seeing her sitting like that, I couldn’t help but notice the rounded, fleshy globes of her ass cheeks or the outline of the generous crevice between them.

I handed her the glass. “Good for what ails you,” I said as a toast. She stared at the drink in her hand while I knocked back half of mine in a gulp, relishing the sharp, stinging heat of the alcohol as it coated my mouth and throat. Certain things, I reflected, are almost impossible to describe to someone who hasn’t experienced them. The sudden rush of nicotine from the first cigarette of the day, for example, or the way good whiskey both numbs your mouth and excites your taste buds at the same time.

“What happened up there?” Claire brought me back to the here and now, twisting the glass in her hands. “What did we just see?”

I had to be honest with her. “I don’t know.” I took another sip of my drink. “But unless your husband has a twin that you didn’t know about,” she shook her head violently at the idea, “then I’d say what we just saw was impossible.”

“How could that be?”

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine. I can honestly say that I’ve never seen anything like it. I mean, I’ve heard of writers going into a trancelike state when they write, but this,” I gestured at the ceiling with my glass, “is ridiculous.”

“Do you think that’s what it is,” she asked, “a trance?”

“More like astral projection of some sort. But even assuming you believe in those things – which I don’t – astral projections don’t have a physical presence. They don’t type.”

“Still, you have to believe what we saw, don’t you?”

“At this point, Claire, the only thing I’m a hundred percent certain of is that I’ll have another drink.” I pointed to her glass. “You okay?” She nodded. When I came back she was sitting up, her glass nestled in the wedge between her thighs. In this position, her breasts were fighting a valiant but losing battle against the confines of her nightshirt.

“Joe,” she asked as I sat down across from her, “why wouldn’t you let me touch him?”

I shook my head. “I’m not sure, exactly. I got the strongest feeling up there that he had no interest in us, that the only thing that mattered to him was his work, what he was writing at that moment. I guess I was afraid of what might happen if we interrupted him before he finished.”

We both stared into space for a few minutes. When she spoke, her voice was shy, almost timid. “What should we do now?”

“I think we should wake your husband.”

“No!” Her vehemence surprised me. “Not yet, anyway,” she added. With that, she closed her eyes and tossed down her drink. When she opened them, her expression changed to one I hadn’t seen from her before. “First, I want to see what he’s written.”

The office was just as we’d left it. Her husband (I couldn’t help but call him that) was still hard at work, churning out the latest in his series of imaginary erotic adventures for her. Knowing we could be awhile, I made myself comfortable in my original spot on the couch. Claire, however, stood by the edge of the desk, watching him avidly.

As I sat there, I wondered about the two of them. I had no answer to the mystery of how her husband could be in two places at once, awake and asleep, but I had the feeling that the key to it lay in Claire’s response to his writings about her. All writing, not just erotica, is an attempt to seduce. The goal of any writer is literally the submission of the reader. Come with me, the writer says, like an alluring lover. Give yourself to me and forget all else.

Given that fact, it’s amazing just how often the writer fails in his or her attempt at seduction, how easy most books are to put down. In this case, however, the goal had clearly been achieved. Claire was smitten by her husband’s words; so smitten that now, given the chance to confront him and learn the truth about them, she chose instead to read his latest chapter. She was, as she’d said, ‘hooked’.

As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait.

The laser printer whirred into life and after a few moments to warm up, the pages flowed into the tray in brisk fashion. In the silence that followed I watched him, thinking that he might disappear now that his evening’s work was done, but he sat quietly, staring into space. Claire, meanwhile, had worked her way around to his side of the desk and now stood next to him, reading his work by the light of the monitor.

I watched her face in the fluorescent glow, noting that she was what I call an ‘animated’ reader, her lips parted, her tongue flicking, her expression a constant, changing blur of emotion. She’d made it through the first page and part of the second when she closed her eyes and let out a moan, a low, throaty growl that tickled the hair on my balls. I wondered what she could have read to induce such a response when I realized that her husband had changed position.

He had turned towards her, watching her read just as I was, and one of his arms trailed off behind her. Blocked by the desk and Claire’s body as she leaned over it, I couldn’t tell what he was doing to her but the effect was obvious. She moaned again and, with an effort, opened her eyes and continued reading.

My cock had sprung to life at her first moan; now my imagination fired it, seeing his hand in my mind’s eye as it petted her meaty buttocks, sliding down and stroking her taut, muscular hamstrings and then his fingers as they slipped inside what had to be a moist and inviting slit. First one finger entered her and then two, his thumb rolling around, teasing and flicking over her engorged clitoris.

Her breathing grew ragged and the pages shook in her hands. Her eyes kept closing and her mouth opened but the only sound that emerged was like the mewling of a kitten. Her husband dropped to his knees behind her, flipping her nightshirt up to the middle of her back. Her groan was so loud it startled me. The pages slipped from her fingers, scattering on the desktop.

The scene in front of me was both erotic and maddening. I felt as though I was watching one of those soft porn movies that turn up on the premium channels late at night, the ones that show you lots of T&A and orgiastic expressions but never give you the money shot. Lit by the glare of the monitor and the soft, hazy glow of the waning moon, Claire’s body wriggled and writhed, ensnared like a fish on the end of her husband’s tongue.

Then I saw his head bob up, like a cork in water, his tongue sweeping past the soft and tender flesh that separated her pussy from the vertical smile of her ass. Spreading her cheeks as far as he could, he extended his tongue and began licking her asshole. Claire went rigid at his first touch, the cords on her neck standing out in huge relief. She reached out, grabbing the edge of the desk for support, and her entire body shuddered as she came, her legs twitching and wobbly from the combined efforts of his mouth and fingers.

Without further preamble, her husband stood and shoved his cock inside her. Claire howled, her hands clutching her breasts. Frustrated by the nightshirt, she yanked it off in one smooth motion, revealing herself fully to me for the first time. Her body was just as I’d imagined it would be, her breasts full and round, dangling over the desk like ripe casaba melons with long, juicy stems. She squeezed and kneaded them as her husband fucked her with long strokes, his hips like the steady slap of a glove on her ass cheeks.

Now I had to admit that, dim lighting or no, this was a scene I’d pay good money to see.

I fought the temptation to touch myself. I was on the job, after all, and this wasn’t my party. Still, as the scent of Claire’s sex filled my nostrils, I felt my own need for release growing strong. She looked at me then, as if sensing my arousal, and her lips spread in a slow, seductive smile.

“Come here, Joseph.” She crooked a finger at me.

Now the last person to call me Joseph, other than my mother, had been Sister Mary Agnes at Christ the King elementary school. But for some reason that thought only made my wood harder. I stood up, my legs stiff and clumsy, and walked towards her, fumbling with my belt. She pushed my hands aside, finishing the job herself. My skin sweltered under her breath as her fingertips curled around the waistband of my briefs.

My cock sprang at her face like a cobra, the angry head smearing her cheek with pre-come. She let out a satisfied “Yum” and used my rod as a paintbrush to spread it over her skin, while her other hand milked me for more. Her husband watched us, his eyes glittering in the darkness. A thin stream of saliva fell from his mouth, landing squarely on her already moistened asshole. His thumb went to work massaging the puckered ring.

Then Claire took me into her mouth.

Exquisite. It’s the only word that comes close to describing the sensation I felt at that moment. Gently she sucked me in, her lips stretched wide to handle my girth, her cheek muscles fluttering like gills. Framed by that small mouth and her delicate, china-doll face, my cock looked obscenely huge, and for some reason it reminded me of those old-time advertisements you used to see in magazines and on television, warning about the perils of cigarette and alcohol abuse.

Be careful, those ads seemed to say, or you’ll wind up like this, buggered at both ends, wallowing in sin and degradation. What those purveyors of decency never understood was how good it felt to let yourself go, how exhilarating it was to give in to the carnal desires we all share. At that moment, Claire was high on the most powerful drug of all, the one known to all women, envied and feared by all men, since Eve first discovered it in the Garden: Raw, unbridled, sexual power.

My cock head nudged against the opening of her throat and she opened her eyes, staring at me. She’d managed to work all but two inches of my meat inside her mouth and I thought that might be as much as she could take, but I soon realized she wasn’t done yet. Her throat muscles began to vibrate, tickling my glans, and her hands gripped my ass cheeks. Her eyes never left mine as her lips claimed the balance of my turgid flesh and in moments, incredibly, her mouth was kissing my pubic hairs.

She pulled back slowly, showing off her skill, letting each new inch of now glistening skin gradually emerge in the moonlight. She worked on the head in earnest, her lips sucking, her tongue like a pair of fibrillating paddles. At this rate I knew it wouldn’t take long for her to get me off. Then her husband pulled out of her cunt and pointed his cock against her asshole.

Without taking her mouth off my dick, Claire grabbed my hands and placed them on her breasts. I knew what she wanted. Each one filled my hand perfectly and I cupped them, letting her hardened buds slip between my fingers. I squeezed, pulling downward, pinching and tugging on her nipples as though I were milking her. She moaned her approval. Her husband pressed forward, forcing her sphincter muscle to stretch and let him in. She cried out around my cock as the mushroom head popped inside her anal opening.

Claire steadied herself against me as her husband steered his cock down her Hershey Highway. When he had her completely skewered, he paused long enough for her to regain her balance. He gave her a slap on the cheek and she signaled her readiness with a quick wiggle. Then he began to pump her tight little butt, slowly at first, each stroke gathering steam, while she renewed her oral assault on my dick. None of us were going to last long now.

I felt it first, that little tingle that signals the point of no return, and Claire seemed to sense it as well. My body convulsed as I lost all control, yanking hard on her nipples, thrusting into her face, my come spurting into her throat and mouth. Her husband cried out and I knew the time had come for him as well, his ejaculate flooding deep into her bowels. Claire joined us both a moment later, my cock slipping out of her mouth as she screamed, my remaining jism squirting onto her jaw and neck.

For the next few minutes the sound of heavy breathing filled the room as we tried to collect ourselves. The acrid odors of sweat and semen were almost overpowering. I started to feel awkward and more than a little uncomfortable. Claire’s hand brushed her hair back behind her ears and in the process scooped some of my come onto her finger. She stared at it, as if debating what to do with it. A smile spread across her face and she looked at me, extending her hand towards my face.

The invitation was clear enough. Although I’d have preferred another shot of her husband’s scotch, I opened my mouth and allowed her finger inside. She deposited my gooey cream on my tongue, swiping her finger back and forth several times. When she tried to remove her finger, I pressed my lips together hard, trapping her, and her smile grew broader as my tongue flicked around her nail. Finally, I released her and she let her hand linger for just a moment on my lips and chin before turning her attention to her husband.

She swiveled around on the desktop to face him, her legs reaching out to wrap around his hips. The two of them embraced and began kissing each other passionately. I took that as my cue to leave and I stuffed my shrinking cock back into my trousers. I was halfway down the hall before it struck me what I’d just done and with whom. I poked my head into Claire’s bedroom.

Her husband was still there, all right, lying peacefully on his side of their bed. He hadn’t moved from the position I’d seen him in last and for a minute I wondered if he might be dead. I crept quietly along the wall, angling for a closer look. There it was, the slow, steady rise and fall of his breathing. I stared at him for a few moments, feeling a strange combination of remorse and apathy. Well, buddy, I thought finally, you missed one hell of a party.

I walked down the stairs and left the house, resisting the temptation of the liquor bottle sitting on the bar. On the drive home I turned the situation over in my mind, trying to make some sense of it, but I had no luck. I kept seeing Claire, bent over the desk in that darkened room, her husband’s face shiny with her juices. And I kept feeling her lips and tongue as they ravished my aching cock.

By the time I got home I’d worked up a good old-fashioned Catholic case of guilt, full of reproach for my actions, sure that I had broken every known rule of involvement with a client on a case and wondering if I hadn’t made up some new ones. I showered before going to bed, paying extra attention to my genitals. For a sinful man, I slept surprisingly well.

The following afternoon I sat in my chair, staring at my blank piece of paper, listening to Max shredding documents in the next room, when Claire walked in. The change in her was astonishing. Gone was the fidgety, hesitant, unsure woman who’d walked into my office just two days ago. In her place stood an elegant, sophisticated lady looking comfortable and secure. Wearing a black dress that hadn’t come off any rack, she even looked taller, but I’m sure the three-inch pumps had something to do with that.

Completing the ensemble were a pair of black stockings that clung to her legs like a second skin. My first thought upon seeing her like this was to bend her over my desk and fuck her like I’d seen her husband do, but I had the strongest feeling she would like nothing more.

She gestured to the typewriter. “What’s the matter? Wasn’t last night inspiration enough for you?”

I shook my head. “I’m still trying to sort out last night. Until I get it straight in my head, I can’t write about it.”

“That didn’t bother our…friend,” she laughed over her choice of words and sat down, placing her dark purse on my desk. “After we finished, he wrote five more pages before leaving me.”

“Leaving you?”

“Yes.”

“And when was that?”

“I don’t know. About dawn, I’d say.”

“And when did your husband wake up?”

“Not long after that. He’s an early riser.”

“And of course, he had no memory of having done anything.”

“None at all. He’s told me that he dreams every night but he never remembers them.” Her eyes met mine. “But then, he really didn’t do anything, did he?”

I held her gaze, not giving an inch. “Why me, Claire?”

She looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.” I leaned forward, resting my elbows on my desk. “Come on, Claire. I may have been thinking with the little head last night but the big one is doing just fine now. You knew what we were going to find up in that room, didn’t you? You knew because you’d seen him before; you’d…experienced him before. Hadn’t you?”

My palm slapped the desktop. “Hadn’t you, Claire?”

“All right! Okay!” Her body jerked as though I’d jabbed her with a needle. “Yes, I’d seen him before.” Miss fidgety was back suddenly, arms and legs crossing and uncrossing, her tawny skin rippling from the effort. In the momentary silence that followed I became acutely aware that the shredding sounds from the next room had stopped. When she spoke again, her voice was in a monotone so low I had to strain to hear her.

“It was the night I stayed up; the one I told you about. I’m not sure what happened, maybe I fell asleep, I don’t know, but I was sitting up in our bedroom and I heard a sound coming from the office. I checked on my husband and he was dead to the world, so I got up to investigate. I tiptoed down the corridor and stuck my head in the doorway and I saw him. Just like you did.”

She stared straight ahead, not seeing me, not seeing anything, reliving the events of that night. “At first my reaction was just like yours. I freaked. But just as I was about to go back to the bedroom and wake my husband, the printer started kicking out pages. And for some reason, I had an overwhelming urge to see what he’d written. I went over to the desk and grabbed the pages out of the printer tray and started reading them, just as I did last night.” Her eyes focused on mine.

“And then I felt his hands on me.”

She uncrossed her legs, slowly this time, and I saw, if not all the way to Argentina, at least as far as the continent of South America. Her stockings stopped at mid-thigh and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to guess she wore no panties.

“I’m not sure I can describe for you just how it felt,” she continued. “They were my husband’s hands, and yet they weren’t. And I can tell you; my husband has never touched me like he did that night. It was like the words that I’d been reading come to life. Almost before I knew it, my nightshirt was off and I was lying on my back on the desk. He fingered me and then I felt his tongue on me and oh God, was that incredible! It was like, I don’t know, if I could somehow leave my body and go down on myself, that’s how I would do it. So intimate. So…knowing.

“But it was more than that because he knew things about me even I didn’t know; places I liked to be touched, ways in which I wanted him to use his mouth and tongue. I don’t know how long he did it, but he kept raising the stakes, building me higher and higher until at last, when I finally came, I was like a monster, screaming and grabbing at his hair, squeezing my legs together so hard I thought his head might pop off.”

As Claire spoke, the temperature in the room seemed to go up, as though someone had set the thermostat on ‘blast furnace’. My palms oozed sweat onto my desktop and my dick leaked in sympathy. I sat back, hoping I wouldn’t stain through to my trousers.

“I’ve never had an orgasm like that,” she went on. “It seemed to go on for hours. When I finally recovered, he was standing up and I expected him to fuck me, but he had other ideas. He pulled me towards him, sliding me off the desk until I was on my knees in front of him. I figured he wanted me to suck his cock and after the way he’d made me feel I was more than happy to do it for him.

“But I soon discovered that what he really wanted to do was fuck me in the mouth.”

She stopped then, looking down, and I thought I saw another blush creep across her features. “I know I told you that I hadn’t slept around a lot before I got married but that didn’t mean I was inexperienced, either. And I had one boyfriend in particular who liked things a little…rough, let’s say. Of course, he liked things rough out of bed, too; a real creep, that one. Why do men always feel they have to treat you the same way, both in and out of bed?”

I opened my mouth and shut it just as quickly. I was pretty sure the question was rhetorical and, at that point, I didn’t have enough blood pumping to my brain to form an articulate response.

“Anyway, I found out I had a taste for it. Rough sex, I mean.” She shook her head. “I thought I’d left it behind me when we broke up but I guess not. I don’t know, there’s just something about being used like a fuck toy that’s so dirty and so…hot. And maybe, once you learn certain things about yourself, maybe there’s no going back. Those feelings just stay there inside you, lying dormant, waiting for the right set of circumstances – or the right man – to wake them up.

“Anyway, that’s just what he did. He pumped in and out of me slowly a couple of times, just to let me get used to him, and he slipped his fingers through my hair, grabbing a fistful of it, tilting my head until I was at just the right angle for him. Then he began fucking my mouth.

“God, I loved it! I played with my nipples and rubbed my clit and it didn’t take me long before I came again. I came twice more before he unloaded and he even did that right, pulling back far enough so that he came in my mouth and not my throat. When I’m that turned on, I’m like a semen-junkie. I want to taste it going down.”

She looked at me again. “You tasted different, you know. Similar, but different. I guess most men do. But then, everything about you is different, isn’t it Joseph?” My cock twitched at her use of my name. “You were brought up to treat girls like ladies, weren’t you? To be a gentleman. And that’s just what you were last night, even when I was sucking your cock.”

She stood up then and walked around to my side of the desk. She lifted one leg and sat on the edge, hiking her skirt until downtown Buenos Aires was exposed, swollen and very moist, her hooded clit peeking at me like an unspoken promise. She took my hand, her breath catching as I touched her, my finger slipping naturally between those two puffy lips.

“But I’m no lady, Joseph,” she said, her grasping cunt mugging my finger. “You don’t have to be gentle with me.”

I stood up quickly, shoving a second and then a third finger inside her. She gasped, closing her eyes, welcoming the sudden assault. I thrust my fingers as deeply as I could, cupping her pubis mound with my hand, my palm rubbing her engorged clit. I grabbed her hair, her dark, lustrous, perfectly coifed hair, squeezing it, yanking her head back until my face was on top of hers, our mouths close enough for me to taste her lipstick.

“Is this what you want, Claire? Is this why you came here today?”

“Oh, yes!” she managed. “Jesus, God, fuck me, please!”

“You know,” I said, watching her, “that’s almost funny. I hadn’t figured you for a religious girl.” My fingers slid out of her twat with a wet, spongy sound and she groaned in protest. Before she could react, I stuffed them into her mouth. Her eyes went wide but she didn’t hesitate, licking and sucking my fingers hungrily, the way she had my cock the night before. From the way she lapped at her own juice, she wasn’t just a semen-junkie.

But I’d had enough of Claire and her ‘I was a teenage harlot’ routine. The big head was still functioning, barely, and I needed some answers. I jerked on her hair and she reluctantly let go of my fingers. I led her back to her chair and allowed her to smooth down her dress before sitting her down in it. I sat on the edge of the desk, facing her, making no effort to hide my still tumescent cock or the wet blotch on my pants. Our positions were now reversed and she stared at my bulge the way a kitten eyes an empty saucer of milk.

“Why me, Claire?”

She stared at me resentfully; a junkie denied her fix. Her composure returned bit by bit. “I’d heard of you,” she managed after a few minutes. “You know, the detective who’s also a published writer. I found a few articles about you on the Internet.”

“So what?” I snorted. “Dashiell Hammett was with the Pinkertons and Joe Wambaugh was a cop for 14 years. What’s the big deal?”

“So Hammett’s dead and Wambaugh wouldn’t return my call. What do you think, Joe? I thought the fact that you were a writer might help.”

“Why?”

She sighed. “You may not believe this, but what I told you was the truth. I started receiving these letters or stories, or whatever you want to call them, and I got hooked. It was like reading one of the best, the most erotic, stories I’d ever read, only this one was about me. I had to find out who was doing it!”

“But you knew who it was before you ever came in here.”

“Yes, I did. Or thought I did. But it seemed so crazy! I woke up that next day so confused. I thought maybe I’d dreamed it, or imagined the whole thing. I mean, how could such a thing be possible? Can you explain it, Joe?” I shook my head and she continued, “So I thought my original idea might be best after all. If I could just convince you to come to the house, and if he showed up while you were there, then that would mean it – he – was real.”

“And last night?”

“Last night? What about it?” Then she realized what I meant. “Oh. What happened last night…happened. I didn’t take you out there to seduce you. But I enjoyed it, Joe. All of it. Didn’t you?”

It was my turn to blush. She was getting comfortable again; confident. I remembered the way she’d looked the previous night, sprawled out on the desk like a suckling pig with more than a foot of cock meat filling her. Had that really been her first time with two men? If so, she’d taken to it like a duck to water. Maybe in some women sexual knowledge isn’t so much taught as it is inbred, passed down like a genetic trait. And maybe I was just being perverse, but I couldn’t let her off the hook just yet.

With what little control I had left, I managed, “So, why did you come here today, Claire? Other than to let Jesus fuck you, of course.”

Her nascent smile became a glare of anger. “Well, it certainly wasn’t to fuck you, Joseph.” I said nothing and we stared at each other for a few moments like two school kids engaged in a game of double dog dare. Finally, she looked away and said softly, “I came here because I still need your help.”

I refused to let up. “Why, Claire? Your case is solved. You know ‘who done it’. What’s more, you know that it’s not just your imagination either because I saw it, too. Vidi, veni, baby. That should be proof enough for anybody.”

“But I don’t know what to do about it!” Her whole body shook. “Don’t you see? I thought that you, of all people, might be able to help me understand why he can’t just…I mean, why does he have to…” The dam broke and the tears began to gush.

I handed her a box of tissues and walked back around my desk, feeling more than a little ashamed of myself. I sat heavily in my chair, letting her cry it out. After a few minutes, the full implication of what she’d said hit me and I couldn’t help it, I laughed out loud. She lifted her head, startled at my outburst.

“I’m sorry,” I said, gaining control of myself. “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s that I just realized that you didn’t hire me for my skills as a detective. You hired me because I’m a writer. And I don’t think that’s ever happened before.”

“Then you’ll help me?” Her smile was weak but hopeful.

“Look, Claire, just because I’m a writer doesn’t mean I know what’s going on in your husband’s mind.”

“But you must have some idea –“

“Let me tell you something. All writers are split personalities, Claire. I accept that. We’re one person when we write and another, often completely different person, when we’re not writing. And one of the great ironies in life is that most of us are far less interesting and provocative than what we write about. But where that ‘other’ personality comes from, where our ideas come from and why we feel compelled to write about them in the first place, that’s one of the great mysteries of life. “Now, as to why your husband is writing about things most men would rather be doing, that’s a very good question, but you’re asking the wrong person.”

“Joe, I told you what happened the last time I accused him of writing those –“

I held up my hand, stopping her. “Don’t accuse. Show him.”

“What?”

“First rule of writing, Claire. Show, don’t tell.”

“I don’t understand.”

Changing tactics, I asked, “Claire, are you familiar with the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde?”

“Well, I haven’t read it, if that’s what you’re asking. I think I saw the movie, though.”

Christ, I thought. If it weren’t for the movies, the great books would have disappeared long ago. “But you know the story, right? Henry Jekyll, a prominent, upright physician in Queen Victoria’s England, believed that he could indulge in some of his darker desires without fear of exposure by creating an alter ego, Edward Hyde, to take the heat for him. It’s only by the end of the story that Jekyll realizes that he and Hyde are and always have been one, and there’s no separating a person’s actions from their consequences.

“Now tell me, Claire. If you had a choice of living with either Henry Jekyll or Edward Hyde, which would you choose?”

It took a few minutes for the idea to sink in, but when it did, a smile gradually crept across her lovely face.

“Why not both?” she asked.

“My thoughts exactly.” I stood up, extending my hand. “Mrs. Vawdrey, I don’t think you need any more of my help.”

She shook my hand, saying, “I can’t thank you enough, Mr. Conrad.” She paused, noticing the still damp spot on the front of my pants. “Are you sure I don’t owe you anything?”

“Quite sure.”

She turned away and then stopped. “Oh,” she said, fishing in her purse, “I almost forgot. These are the pages he wrote last night. I thought you might like to read them.” She set them on the desk and with a last smile she was gone.

I picked up the pages, noticing that one of them had a dark stain on the corner. I raised it to my face and sniffed. Faint but exhilarating, the aroma of Claire Vawdrey’s come sent an unmistakable signal to my dick, causing it to swell and tent my trousers. At that moment, Max burst into the room, trying not to look too excited.

“Jesus!” she said, her eyes bright. “For a minute there, I wasn’t sure if you two were going to fuck or fight.” She saw the pages in my hand. “Oh, more reading material? Great! Cause I kinda, um, wore out the others while you were on the job last night.”

She walked over to me, reaching out to get a closer look at the papers. Her other hand absently brushed my engorged knob, recoiling when she hit the wet spot. “Ewww! What did that bitch do, make you come in the wrapper?” She brought her hand up to her face and inhaled, just as I’d done a few moments ago. “Not bad,” she said, smiling. “Of course, it’s better when it’s not sifted through cotton.” Her tongue swiped across her palm. “Any more where this came from?”

I growled low in my throat. That was it, I thought. I’d had more than enough of strong, sexually knowing women for one day. I spun her around, draping her over my desk.

“Oh!’ Her exhale became a grunt as her breasts flattened out on the desktop. “All right!” I yanked her skirt up to her waist and reached for her panties with both hands, shredding them with surprising ease. “Wait!” She cried out at the sound. “Those are my best pair! Goddamnit, Joe! You don’t pay me enough to—!” The rest died in her throat as my cock plunged inside her all the way to her cervix.

I fucked her hard and fast, all the frustration, all the restraint I’d shown earlier with Claire boiling over into each stroke. I came in less than 30 seconds, screaming something inhuman and each spurt shook me like a heart attack. I thought I heard Max crying out with me but I couldn’t be sure.

I’m not sure what happened after that; I must’ve blacked out for a few seconds because the next thing I felt was Max shaking me. “Joe,” she said, her voice muffled by the desk, “either somebody’s put on weight lately or your dick needs to go see Jenny Craig.”

“What?” I opened my eyes and realized that I’d collapsed on top of her. “Oh. Sorry.” I lifted myself up and staggered backwards, falling into my chair. She groaned and rolled over, squeezing her legs together and propping herself up on her elbows. She stared at me while she caught her breath.

“Nice foreplay, boss man,” she said finally. “Good thing I was already worked up from listening to you and Little Miss Muffett or you might’ve torn something.” Her fingers toyed with the remnants of her tattered underwear. “Like my poor panties.”

“I’ll buy you another pair.”

“Yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say. And then the next thing you know, they’re telling you not to wear any because they just get in the way and the next thing--.”

“Maxie, honey,” I said, closing my eyes, “shut up.” I sat like that, sprawled out in my chair, enjoying the blessed silence, waiting for my heartbeat to return to normal.

Finally, Max couldn’t contain herself. “You know, there’s just one thing I don’t understand,” she said. I cocked an eyebrow to let her know I was listening. “What did you mean when you asked her which one she’d rather live with, Jekyll or Hyde?”

Max listened quietly while I filled her in on the details from the previous evening. Well, almost all the details. After all, every relationship has its secrets. I ended by saying, “I’m going under the assumption that the man we saw in the office last night and the one lying in her bed are just different aspects of the same person. How he’s able to manifest in two places at once I don’t know, but I think it shows just how strong these desires he has for her are.”

Max thought for a moment. “So your idea is for her to wake her husband up one evening and introduce him to his alter ego? Sort of a ‘Pleased to meet you, hope you guess my name?’”

I shrugged. “Something like that.”

“Show, don’t tell.” She laughed. “That’s pretty cute, boss man. But isn’t it kind of risky, too?”

I nodded. “Any time you love somebody, you’re at risk. Granted, there’s no way to know just how Dr. Jekyll will react when he meets Mr. Hyde, but if anyone can pull it off it’s Claire. Based on what I’ve seen, she’s more than a match for both of them.” And any other man she meets, I added silently.

I watched as Max stopped fiddling with her panties and lifted her hand to her face. She licked each finger and then stuck all three in her mouth. I thought of Claire, sucking on my fingers after I’d jammed them in her cunt, and I had a sudden image of the two of them wrapped around each other, their faces slick and shiny with girl sap. Max had never given me any reason to suspect she liked women but even the people you know the best can still surprise you.

Her chuckle brought me out of my reverie. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” she said with a glint in her eyes. “What’s an old fool like you know about love?”

For some reason my cock gave a sudden jerk when she said the word ‘love’. “I might just surprise you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

I levered myself out of the chair and staggered towards her, my lengthening dick slapping my thigh. I grabbed her hair with one hand and wedged the other under her still-juicy snatch. She gasped, opening her mouth, and I kissed her, darting my tongue between her lips like an agile worm. After a few minutes of mouth calisthenics I stopped and looked at her. Her eyes were soft and a little glassy.

“Well?” I asked.

She spread her legs slightly and I felt a small dab of my come dribble onto my fingers. She smiled, placing one hand on my lips and the other on my shoulder.

“Show,” she whispered, gently forcing me to my knees, “don’t tell.”