Pleasure

It was starting to feel like one of those Agatha Christie stories. I had assembled everyone in the reception room, and I was addressing them.

"I ask you all to help us. I know that you want to be away from here as soon as possible. We just need to take your details, quickly check your identities, and we will let you go."

Some of those listening did not welcome my message.

"Don't worry. What we have here is a lot more important than a few girls giving massage. We cannot absolutely promise confidentiality. But please be assured that it is very unlikely that you will have to be interviewed later. We won't be telling your wives and girlfriends."

At least this raised a hint of a laugh.

I whispered into one of the women's ears. She nodded.

"And help yourselves to coffee and things."

It took about an hour before we had finished. Three men and five women. I was thankful that the women were all British, I was not going to have to get involved in a trafficking enquiry.

I waited until the forensic crew had finished and the corpse had been taken to the morgue. Then I drove home.

"The Prof's dead." I told my wife.

"I heard. What was it?"

"A huge stroke, they think. They will have to check. Had he seemed to be out of sorts lately?

"No, not really. He's always been a bit odd of course. A bit more secretive perhaps, but he seemed to be quite happy."

"You know where it happened?"

"No. Where?"

"Down in xxxxxxx. In a brothel."

"Business or pleasure?"

"According to the tart, it was very much for pleasure."

"What a way to go!"

I poured out a couple of generous whiskies. We both raised our glasses.

"The Prof."

We clinked and sipped.

When the report landed on my desk a couple of days later it was confirmed that he had had a huge haemorrhagic stroke. He had, in the old terms, burst a blood vessel while orgasming. The only curious thing in the report was that his penis seemed abnormal. The pathologist was going to have to do more investigation of this.

In the same envelope as the report was a handwritten slip of paper, suggesting that I ought to speak to one of my colleagues.

She, my colleague that is, was investigating a series of deaths of prostitutes in the area.

Again, it seemed that death has been due to natural causes, but there were too many of them to be a coincidence. And in each case, their sexual parts had appeared to be a bit abnormal. In one case her nipples, in others, their vulva and/or clitoris. I showed her the photographs of the Prof's penis.

"Yes, very similar. A bit like a dark cobweb over the sensitive skin."

She showed me her case photos, and I agreed.

"Can I take a copy of this and ask around a bit?"

She took one of the pictures of the living Prof.

When I saw her again a couple of days later she had shown the picture to some of the other working girls, and they confirmed that the Prof may well have been a customer of the dead girls.

At home my wife was upset.

She and I had been to the same university, and though not at the same time had attended several of the Prof's courses. He had inspired both of us to take up our careers. She was now a senior researcher in the Prof's forensic science laboratory. I had been fascinated by forensics, and had joined the police.

My wife was upset because she was now having to be the Boss at work. In the Prof's absence, morale was at rock bottom. She was having to nag, encourage, explain, negotiate, and scheme. All she really wanted to do was her own work, she did not want to be a manager, but she was stuck with it. She was also trying to make sense of the Prof's personal research projects. She was bringing home piles of his notebooks – highly irregular, the notebooks were supposed to never leave the laboratory. But she had found that she could make little sense of them at work, there were just too many interruptions.

At least I could help her. (Again irregular, but what the hell.) The Prof's writing was not easy to read. We were transcribing the notes onto our computer. She would read, I would type. Often it made little sense, but we could then stare at the scribble in order to guess where we had misread it. Slowly we got the hang of it, and we were able to speed up the transcription.

We had started with the most recent book. It was soon clear that we needed to go further back.

We worked late. In the morning, it was a day we both had off work, we did what we usually did on such mornings, and we did it slowly, luxuriously, and lovingly. Then, again as we usually did, we both went back to sleep.

I awoke with an idea. I waited until she surfaced again.

"You know you said that he had been more secretive lately."

"Did I? Well yes, he had been."

"How long. Perhaps if we go back to when the secrecy starts?"

She sat up and thought.

"Eighteen months? Yes, just after the YYYYY case."

"What was that?"

"Oh, it was a chap who had infected a series of women. We had to prove that it was the same strain of the disease that he carried, that the women had got."

"Sexually transmitted?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"Never came to court. Prosecutors said there was insufficient proof. They said that that strain might be widespread, and we couldn't say it wasn't. The bloke claimed unsound mind – claimed he couldn't help himself. Anyway, it killed him not much later."

We were both eager to test the theory, so were soon sipping coffee and dropping toast crumbs over the notebooks, looking for anything relating to YYYYY.

We found what we were looking for. It took time and a lot of effort. But we were sure that we had pieced the story together. Then I noticed a scribbled string of letters and numbers in the margin.

"The Prof had a computer?"

"Yes, it's a slow and ancient laptop. I think it's still in the office somewhere."

"Did you look at what was on it at all?"

"I tried."

"Encrypted?"

I pointed at the characters.

"The password?"

The lab was empty. The animal carers had been and fed and cleaned and watered. We could hear the animals scurrying in their cages. Otherwise silence. My presence was explained to the security guard on the gate.

"We mustn't work on our own, so I have brought him in with me."

I flashed him my police badge, signed the book, and he was happy.

Sure enough the password gave us entry to the Prof's private documents. There was a report he was writing entitled 'YYYYY serum. Analysis and effects.'

We read through the unfinished report. I will spare you all the scientific language, Here is the gist of it.

The Prof had theorised that many diseases cause symptoms that encourage their transmission. As examples he cited:-

The common cold causes and is spread by sneezing.

Mosquitoes are attracted to sweating feverish patients with malaria,

Toxoplasmosis infected rats and mice show less fear of cats. Cats are the diseases primary host, and they get it from eating infected rats and mice.

Had YYYYY's disease indeed made him incapable of self-control?

Samples of the micro-organism infecting YYYYY were grown in the lab. They seemed to excrete a biologically active substance. The Prof had isolated this, and tested it on the mice. It made them extremely sexually active, but raised their blood pressure.

At the end of the report there were some unfinished experiments.

Test subject 1 Chloe £50

Dilution 100000:1 Batch 3

Reported Effects None

Observed effects None

Subjects 2 to 5, Dilutions decreasing, results similar.

Test subject 6 Ruby £50

Dilution 15000 : 1 Batch 3

Reported Effects Slightly increased stimulation. Good orgasm

Observed Effects None observed

Test subject 7 Ceri £60

Dilution 7500 : 1 Batch 3

Reported Effects Increased stimulation. Powerful orgasm

Observed Effects Slight redness – possibly normal for orgasm

At this time, it seemed, the subjects were no longer asking for payment. They were contacting the Prof and volunteering. Amongst the results was a comment against one subject's record saying that she had stolen the remains of the Batch 3 serum.

I telephoned my colleague. She confirmed the dates. The dead prostitutes had been found at about the right time. It looked as if they had overdosed on the serum and killed themselves. I checked their working names, and yes, most of them matched subject's names.

What were we to do? We both have, or should that be had, the greatest respect for the Prof. But he had been conducting unethical and, it seemed, dangerous experiments on the local working girls of the area. And the serum? What if it became available on the black market? It would be murderous. The only thing to do seemed to be to overlook the evidence, and to try to ensure that no-one else follows the same trail.

We had brought the notebooks with us in a brief-case. When we left, the Prof's old laptop was in it in their place.

The next week my wife heard, with much relief, that a replacement for the Prof had been appointed, and that she would be able to return to her old job. She tidied the Prof's, and for the last few months, her office in readiness for its new occupant.. She discretely removed several items for safekeeping.

All that was a couple of years ago. Last week I took a week off work and had done some jobs around the house. This included re-decorating the bedroom. We had ordered a new bed, and as well as new wallpaper, I was replacing some rickety old bedroom furniture with modern stuff. I had to empty the old drawers and sort and re-organise their contents in the new storage.

This morning, being a non-working day for both of us, we had concentrated on pleasure. I had reached into the drawer and took out the little bottle. I had squeezed a little of the 'intimate lubricant' onto my finger. She had squealed, but not in an unpleasant way, when I had placed the cold lubricant between her lower lips and onto her clitoris.

I let my finger rest there, not wanting to do too much too soon. I think we both love it when we wait like that. I know I love feeling that little bulge growing, feeling it pulse as the blood engorges it.

I am imagining it now. Slow gentle massage. I kiss her breasts while I slide my finger over and around the silky flesh. I press inwards. The flesh parts to welcome me, and she arches her back to make access easier. I press upwards and feel the slightly softer place she loves me to find. I press it and she gasps.

I decided that I would use my tongue. I slid down and gently kissed her belly, then lower, and lower. She arched and squirmed to accelerate my progress downwards until I was able to gently lick her. Gently was not enough for her. I licked and sucked. She squirmed and pressed.

"Oh God. Oh my God. Oh fuck. Oh shit. Oh fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Oh!!!"

I have abbreviated her cries. Although we live in a detached house, I suspect that the neighbours would be able to supply a fuller version.

Now sometimes we like it if I then enter her, and luxuriate in her post orgasmic clutches. At other times, we wait a little and then she explores and fondles me, before she straddles and surrounds me. Then she likes to find that position where the head of my penis is being rubbed against her G-spot to our eventual mutual satisfaction.

This morning she was panting like a steam train. Between pants, words came out, there was 'Thank you', 'Bloody amazing,' and there were more gods, shits and fucks. The panting and words subsided. She was asleep.

Yes, I was aroused and I could have taken my pleasure. She says she likes to be awoken by cunt stretching intrusion. But I wanted something else. I got up, put on slippers and a dressing gown and went downstairs.

Soon the coffee smelt incredible. I looked at the packet – but it was just our usual blend. Somehow, it smelled better. She likes milk in hers, and opening the fridge I noticed the cheese. I took it out and cut off a sliver. When I popped it into my mouth it was as if I had never tasted anything before. I buzzed and swayed to the ultimate cheese experience. The image that comes to my mind now is swimming through runny brie. (I like brie. If you dont, then how about melted chocolate, or perhaps double cream.)

I took the coffee upstairs. I placed her mug at her bedside and then mine on top of my bedside drawers. I noticed the lubricant bottle. Something was pencilled on the label. It was unclear, but I made out 'Batch 4 7500'.

She was snoring. It hadn't killed her.

I sipped my coffee.

Coffee heaven on stilts. Wow. I like cheese. I love coffee. What I was tasting could start a new religion.

I thought.

I had got the lubricant into my mouth from her. The serum was amplifying my pleasure. What about my finger, It had been rubbing her as well? Did it feel different? I rubbed it against my thumb.

No, nothing strange.

So the serum only effects moist membranes like the genitalia, and the lining of the mouth.

Phew. Powerful stuff.

I sipped. Sniffed the coffee. Wow again. I put the mug down. The click disturbed her. She squirmed a bit, and opened her eyes.

"Come here. Lie down. I am going to fuck you silly, you lovely lovely man."

I paused a moment, thought about it, and came to a decision.

I took the bottle and squeezed a tiny amount onto the head of my penis.

It's evening now. We are both sore and aching from the unaccustomed exercise. Not only that, but the fridge is nearly empty.

It's wearing off now. Typing this document was hard to start with. We are now both able to control ourselves a bit better. We discussed it as best we could. We both felt that we should record the facts, but that we should, as far as possible, put the information out of reach.

We have put the Batch 4 7500 bottle, together with the phial that we think contains undiluted serum in an old metal box. We will put this document and the notebooks in there as well. We plan to secure it with two padlocks. I will hide one key. She will hide the other.

___________________________________________

The above is a copy. For the sum of £1,000,000 now, and a guarantee of 15% of your profits before tax, I can let you have the remaining goods.