A Literary Seduction

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?”