Michael Hemmingson - Seven Women - An Erotic Private Investigation

“Hello,” he said, looking up.

“Hi.”

“Please, sit down, join me,” gesturing to the empty chair across from him.

She felt funny, but sat down anyway. Slater had a weary expression. Tasha liked the creases around his eyes and mouth; they were signs of age that signified experience, knowledge, accomplishment — all things she wanted (but not the wrinkles).

She couldn’t look at him for long; she had to glance around the bar. She said, “You’re alone here.” She thought she was acting rather aggressive, which was unusual for her. She knew what she was getting at, she knew what this would lead to — it was all a matter of playing the game. There are always games to play.

“I didn’t feel like putting in half a day at the office,” Slater said, “and I didn’t feel like going home, so I decided to stop here and have a couple of beers.”

She nodded. She wanted to ask him how old he was exactly (she would have guessed early fifties), and why he didn’t want to go home — she heard he had a place in the best part of the city. She looked at his hands: rough and gentle-looking at the same time. They’d been around, those hands; they’d probably touched many women. She saw he wore a wedding band.

“Can I get you a beer?” Slater offered.

“Sure.”

Slater started to get up.

“Wait,” Tasha said, touching his arm. “Make that wine, white wine please.”

Slater smiled and said, “I didn’t think you were the beer-drinking type.”

He got himself another mug and a glass of white wine for her and returned. He asked her name. She told him.

“And I bet you want to take Publishers’ Row by storm,” he said. “Go out and find the new Kerouacs and Updikes. And whomever else.”

She didn’t know what to say; it was as if he’d read her mind. He’d probably heard the same story many times before.

“If that’s what you want, it’s advisable,” he continued, “to set your standards as high as possible. Never accept anything less than damn good or perfect. Don’t go for the mediocre even if it’s the only offer on the table. You must always demand the best. How old are you?”

She told him.

“That’s a good age,” he said, suddenly grabbing her hand. “Twenty-two. And your hands. Such soft hands. Soft, pale skin. You’re a lovely young woman, Tasha Ticknor.”

She couldn’t look at him.

“You don’t mind my saying that, do you?”

“No.”

His grip tightened. He opened her palm, caressed it. The sensation sent tremors into her, setting off her most remote fears. She didn’t know what she was doing, but she didn’t want to back off. She had gone this far and she was ready for anything. She imagined herself with this man, naked with him. She hated herself for this — hated her own trepidation. She hadn’t had sex with anyone in more than a year.

“Where do you live?” he asked her.

“This summer,” she said, clearing her throat, “I’m here on campus, in the dorms.”

“Roommate?”

“Single occupancy. Private.”

“Will you take me there?” It came out as a mumble as he looked at his beer.

“What?” she said.

He let go of her hand and smiled. “Never mind.”

She gaped at her hand and blurted, “Don’t stop.” She was surprising herself.

Slater laughed. “You must think I’m some dirty old man.”

She said, “No.”

*****

“All I kept thinking was ‘I’m surprising myself, I’m surprising myself,’” Tasha told me as we sat in our apartment.

“You took him to your room,” I said.

She nodded. “I did. There was no time wasted. We both knew…in a city like this, it’s always rush-rush, never time to play around.”

She could taste the beer on his mouth when he kissed her. She was apprehensive at first, then she relaxed. Her year-long hiatus from sexual intercourse was going to end here, and she was glad it would be with this man.

He touched her breasts, feeling the nipples through the fabric of her blouse and bra. “Tell me to stop if you want me to stop,” he said. She didn’t say a word. She reached to loosen his tie. On the small dorm bed, he caressed her between her legs as she stroked his erection. He moved down and put his mouth to her. She had to let go of his penis and she missed it: she liked having it in her hand; she liked the way it curved; and she thought she would like it in her mouth. He entered her, whispered a few nice things she didn’t really hear. She was too caught up in having a man inside her after so long. She let out a hiss as he went in deeper. It hurt a bit, but she had expected it to. After a little while, Slater turned her over on her stomach. He entered her from behind, caressing her buttocks. She came with what sounded to her like a horrible cry, one she knew her neighbors could probably hear. Slater laughed softly, grabbing some of her hair, kissing her on the cheek. “I certainly felt that,” he said.

She was trying to catch her breath, saying, “It’s — it’s—”

“I’ll make you come more,” he whispered.

Slater moved up, placing his legs on either side of her. He made love to her slowly, gently spreading her ass cheeks with his hands, and rubbing his finger in a spot that made her quiver. He pulled out, spreading the juices of her sex onto her anus. He asked her if she’d ever had sex this way. She told him a few times. He asked if she liked it and she didn’t answer. He inserted a finger; she hissed again. With his finger he softly tugged, opening her. She could feel the cold air of the room go inside her. Her skin began to form goose bumps. Slater fit in a second finger, jerking patiently at her flesh; with an experienced tenderness, she thought.

Her body was shaking; his cock was in one place, his fingers in another. He talked to her as he made love to her, saying, “This is nasty, very nasty, Tasha. I always like the nasty side of things. The extremes. But if this were a sex scene in a book — I don’t know, I would probably have the writer tone it down some. You can’t always give every little detail. But what the heck, eh? Sex is what gets people to buy books these days. Everyone loves to read a vivid, graphic, steamy sex scene now and then.”

She was about to say something, but Slater removed himself from her vagina and went into her asshole. She cried out, muffling the sound by biting the pillow. “How is it?” he asked. She mumbled, almost asked him to stop. He fucked her. She breathed deeply. Slater removed himself, went back into her cunt. He did this for a bit, then went back to anal sex. She wondered whether this was healthy or not, then realized she didn’t care. “Nasty,” Slater moaned, “nasty.” Tasha looked at the clock on the nightstand. She watched the clock for nearly forty minutes as Slater went back and forth between her openings, and she reached two more orgasms.

The one she had while he was in her ass was much different than any other, and this was something new for her. Slater turned her around, moved on top of her, his crotch close to her face, offering his glistening member to her mouth. She almost rejected it. He grabbed her hair. She took it, the taste causing her to gag at first. She lay there and let him fuck her mouth. His body spasmed and there was a new taste, his come filling her mouth, warm and salty, flowing easily. He caressed her face and said, “Nice.”

*****

“It was dirty sex,” Tasha told me as I listened, “but it turned me on. I’d never done anything so dirty and — and I don’t know. It got dirtier. Maybe I’m talking too much. I’m sorry, Leonard.”

“Go on,” I said, even if I didn’t want her to. “I want to know everything.”

The next day she called the publishing house where Slater worked, asked for his extension.