It was Saturday morning and the case had gone dead. Katharine sat drinking coffee at a café on Paris's Left Bank. She had no plan. She would take it as it came, she told herself, one clue at a time. She moved to slide out of the booth, and only then did she notice that a man was blocking her exit, staring intently down at her. How long had he been standing there? She had been too lost in her reverie to notice. He was not a pleasant looking man. He wore a black tie and suit that was stretched tightly over one of the most muscular bodies she had ever seen. His hair was curly and black, he had a thick black mustache, and over his cheeks was dense, black stubble. His eyes were lit by a wildfire that could have been intelligence but looked more like plain rage.
"I got the bill," the man said in heavily accented English, without making the slightest move to let her out.
"I don't know who you are, and I'll pay my own bill," Katharine huffed, and moved to push through him to the bar. The man just snickered. He wasn't going anywhere.
"I feel I owe you," he said, continuing with the performance he'd clearly rehearsed. He's seen too many movies about the mob, Katharine thought furiously. She was accustomed to being outrageously hit upon by French men, but this guy was way out of line. "Anyway, it's already paid," the man continued, and still did not move.
"And why, exactly, do you owe me," she said loudly, hoping to signal her distress to the bartender. "Who are you?"
"A detective of sorts," he replied, reaching into his suit pocket now. Confusion clouded Katharine's face. Maybe the man had been sent by her boss. Maybe this was something she needed to know, a first clue. "And I'd lower your voice," he continued. "We don't want to draw a crowd. At least not with these on the table." With that he pulled a stack of photographs from his jacket pocket and dropped them on the table. She recognized his play immediately and slumped down in her chair.
"You see now why I owe you? I've been enjoying these all morning." Katharine hardly heard him. She was staring in horror at a black-and-white image of herself, naked, sitting on a chair, her head tossed back in the throes of frantic masturbation. With a trembling hand, she swept the photos from the table and onto the seat beside her. "What does he want now," she whispered.
"Maybe we should talk someplace less...public." She nodded quickly, gathered up the photographs and moved for the narrow opening the man had cleared, her head sunk in defeat. The "detective" followed her out onto the sidewalk, where he promptly removed the photos from her hand and slipped them back into his pocket. "Your place would be best, I think," he said, almost polite. "Assuming of course that we'll be alone."
"We'll be alone," she murmured, and they walked in silence back up the street towards the apartment, Katharine numb to the world around her, including the man. As soon as she had shut the door of the loft behind them, the man was moving off through the rooms as if searching for intruders. He did it expertly, eyes flicking left and right, body braced whenever he came to a doorway, and Katharine wondered whether he might actually be some kind of detective. He canvassed the living room, the open kitchen (ridiculous, she thought), then the bathroom, and finally the bedroom. And then he didn't appear again. Katharine swallowed hard, unstuck herself from the floor, and followed. As she came through the bedroom door, he slowly turned to look at her and said: "I think I've found a bug."
"What?" she cried, her voice strangled by terror. Then he held out his hand. In it was her vibrator, which she must have left out that morning. On the bed, she saw in the same glance, were the dozen naked photographs of her, fanned out like playing cards. He grinned: "All very exciting, n'est-ce pas? I like a woman who knows what she wants. Pick a card?"
"Who are you?" Katharine hissed, her hands clenched into fists. Obviously he found this amusing. He was in control here. A man built like that was always in control, here and everywhere. He moved towards her with the vibrator still in his palm. She resolved not to budge. This was her house, and she would not be threatened or intimidated. She stood her ground as the man came closer and closer, her fists clenched so tightly now that they ached.
"I'm on your side," the man said softly, and with one quick motion he flicked on the vibrator and reached down to place it against the inside of her thigh. His eyes never left hers as he did this. She held them, her mouth twisted into a grimace, her body refusing to move, even as the man slid his vibrating palm higher and higher. This is my house! He has no right! The vibrator was cold, and she shivered. That vibrating cold was the only sensation she felt now. The sensation was beginning to make her dizzy, beginning to make her feel as if she was melting around the edges, although it was cold, and her dumb, brute, Pavlovian response to the apparatus infuriated her. Was that desire rising up inside? It didn't matter. If it was desire she would channel it into rage, and in that moment rage overtook her and her fists were up, and she was pummeling this stranger who had walked into her house and taken such liberties. She hit and she hit. It was like punching a block of concrete.
He let her rage on, and even her most violent thrusts did not budge him an inch. Now he held the vibrator tightly against the dimple in her underwear, but she hardly felt it. The ripple that had begun in her groin was lost in the overwhelming surge of emotion that had overtaken her body. She wanted to pound him until he disappeared, until she disappeared too, but when his face lowered gently to hers, oblivious to the spasm of rage that she was unleashing upon him, she found herself kissing him back with all the violence in her heart. Her arms dropped limply to her sides, and then it was just a normal kiss for a moment longer, until she caught herself and lurched away. "No!" she snarled.
"Let me in," he said coolly. "Let me in and you can take those photos off my hands."
She stared broodingly at the floor. She had no idea what would happen next or what she would say. It turned out to be this: "No. At least not in here."
In their room. In the room she shared with Michel.
So she turned, eyes still cast to the floor, and walked out into the living room. She felt the man close behind her, a terrifying force that seemed negligible compared to the force of the conflicting emotions that had overwhelmed her. She came to the couch and felt his arms around her waist. Her neck could no longer support her head, and she slumped into his arms as he covered her face with kisses. So let him strip her naked, let him have his way. She just couldn't think anymore, so let him rake her blouse from her chest, and let him plunge her skirt to her heels as if it was a mob adversary he was intent on drowning. Let him shove his hand down the front of her panties, and let him find her wet and wanting. Her bra was already off, after all, her breasts unloosed for him to find with his mouth, and for her to feel his stubble scraping across their pristine skin as he flicked his tongue across nipples.
Yes, his suit jacket was off, his shirt too, and yes, she would admit that the sight of his hulking shoulders made her want to wrap her arms around them, at least right then in that crazy moment. "Just fuck me," she said dully, and then it was she who was fumbling with his belt and sending his pants cascading to the floor. He pulled her into him and kissed her mouth deeply, his tongue probing past her teeth until she had no choice but to force him back with her own hot tongue and kiss. As she did, she felt herself being lightly lifted up, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, giving over entirely. She felt herself glide weightlessly through the air, his hands spreading her ass, his pinky tantalizing the pinched entrance of her anus.
He set her down on the back edge of the couch. With her locked legs around his waist as her only support, she arched her spine and tossed back her head, wanting to go dizzy, or to conquer the vertigo. Behind her she saw for a moment the upside-down world outside. Then she tensed the muscles of her stomach and arched back up into him, wrapping her arms tightly around the thick cords of his neck for another kiss. It was a dance, that was all. Pure movement that she couldn't begin to explain.
"So do it," she said through a kiss, and his body was tight on hers so quickly that she gasped. They fit like pieces of a puzzle, and his cock inside, as thrilling as it was, was no more thrilling than every other inch of his capable body notched perfectly into hers. She tensed her ass and extended her legs straight out to the sides with her toes pointed in order to make a line of herself and get even closer to him – the scratch of the hair on his chest and belly, the blocks of his arms, his sweet, dank scent. He fucked her like that for a while, and she let herself go all the way because there was no place else to go.
When he pulled out, she gasped again, but this time it was as if a bucket of cold water had been dumped on her head, and the anger that she had swallowed surfaced again, and she beat at his chest with a fury, eyes shooting fire. Never had she ever felt more primitive, or more destroyed, or more herself.
"Like this now," the man growled, placidly submitting to her blows in order to sweep her legs out around him and up above his head. "Straight as swords," he grunted. "Keep them that way."
Her legs shot up straight in front of her now, locked into place on his shoulders with her feet above his head, toes still pointed in some mad ballet. She began to fall backwards onto the couch, but the man placed both hands on the small of her back and pulled her towards him as his cock simultaneously reentered the tensed and shining crevasse that protruded now from the backs of her thighs. He pulled her body into a tight V as he entered her more deeply than she had ever felt anyone inside, and a grunt escaped her mouth from some dark corner of herself. She was tense at first, straining to hold a position that only a dancer could have held, feeling the pull in her hips and at the backs of her thighs, but soon she was drawn more to the pleasure and discovered that she could relax completely. The man's shoulders kept her legs extended, and his hands kept her back straight and her body folded in two. She let her head fall back and let herself be handled. She even let herself smile a crooked smile. She was nothing but a pussy. That was all she could feel, and this was without a doubt the most delicious position ever devised by the sex gods. It was as if she could feel every little millimeter of him, every swell of every vein in his cock, every curve of its blood-tight head, sliding on and on, in and out, over every millimeter of the tight and throbbing walls of a pussy that was discovering a new and thrilling possibility.
Vibrators were easy, but she rarely came with a man on intercourse alone. She needed to be licked and prodded with attention before she could explode. With the detective, however, she felt it coming in just minutes, and because she felt him so precisely too, she knew that he was as close as she was. God, she just felt him so well, but then her brain clicked back on and she had a hand on his belly and was edging him out her. She looked into his face, which was still just as fearsome, but also vulnerable now in its own lust daze, and she said: "Not in me. On me."
He obeyed. She had that power at least. He let her draw him out until the lips of her pussy closed over his freed head, which had turned a livid red. As soon as they separated, he was hitching back up towards her, the vein sharply lining the base of his cock sliding up through the lips of her pussy, over her clitoris, and into the twist of pale hair through which she now raked her nails. Up and down, he split her without penetrating her. Her muscles were loose now and made no resistance as she bent even further forward to watch this new technique, her chin almost touching her knees. She was enthralled. It was one of the most incredible sights she had ever seen, and it was her pussy, and it was this brute of a man. He was entranced by the same sight as she.
Then she was coming like a bomb with just her two fingers pressing down across her lips and his blunt cock moving through just the edge of her wetness like a boat over the surface of a lake. She ratcheted her torso even further forward, straining towards the feeling until her knees were at her ears and she screamed. Her scream exploded simultaneously with the man, who pressed the base of his cock and his balls against her clitoris, with the head standing clear in the air, to shoot lashes of hot come up over her belly and tits.
Then he collapsed away from her, and her feet plummeted to smack the floor, and she was standing there dazed as the man stumbled blindly around the living room as if he had just extricated himself from a car crash. She looked down at her body, which was covered with his slick, white semen. The liquid went clear when she smoothed it over her nipples. She played with herself like an innocent discovering sex for the first time, and she marveled.
And then she wanted him out. Thankfully he seemed to feel the same way. He was already dressing himself, grunting at an uncooperative zipper. He would not meet her eyes, even as he slid the knot of his tie back into place and took one last glance around the room to make sure he hadn't forgotten anything. Then he nodded vaguely in her direction and shuffled towards the door, slamming it shut behind him. Still dazed, she stood there for a minute or two longer before she realized that he'd taken the photos with him. The anger was there again, but then she was tired of emotions. What the hell.
Michel arrived home later that evening. She was reading in bed, wearing her Katharine mask and stuck on the same page. He'd closed a deal, or won a case, or something, and she let him fuck her. She knew she reeked of the other man, but Michel didn't notice. She was falling apart, but Michel didn't notice. So stick your dick in my pussy and get your pleasure, man. I just fucked an animal. I just let a beast come all over me, and I didn't mind. Hell, I liked it, boyfriend, and you know what else (she realized this as she thought it): I didn't even get his name. Shut your mouth, she thought to her inner voice. Don't be cruel.
Michel reached orgasm in a few dozen precise strokes, and as he did she moaned louder than she ever had before. She felt nothing from him, but strangely enough, there was pleasure in the moaning. She was "bad" Katharine now, Katharine long gone, and she was moaning for the ears of other men. Did she hate herself for this? Yes, but she also loved herself for it. She was not a bad girl at heart, she knew, and for once in her life she felt formidable.