A Literary Seduction

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.”

FIN