I always dread Monday mornings, but this one was worse than usual. What a crap weekend it had been! Saturday was my Aunt Flora’s memorial service; what a disaster. Plastic sunshine, and bottled saccharine; half-truths and blatant lies; and it had dragged on for hours. They made her out to be some sort of saint, when in reality she had been a crabby, alcoholic old biddy. To make up for that torture, on Sunday after church I had locked myself in the apartment with my illicit vibrator, about forty gigs of confiscated porn, and a jug of bathtub vodka. And now I was paying the price.
At least the coffee was hot. I looked at our list for the day. It was like a thousand names long. My Chief Inquisitor and I exchanged a look. Melinda knew just as well as I did that there was no way we were making it through that list in one day, and tomorrow there’d be a fresh one, just like it. Ah well, we’d do what we always do: start at the top and work our way down.
Melinda put in her earbud, and I took my seat in the control room behind the mic, and I had them bring in the first client.
A pair of burly Adepts walked him in. He came along meekly, already naked of course. I checked my list. Ezra E Elmendorf, 25, single, male. Occupation: Topiary Artist. Topiary artist? For real? It was either a joke or the perfect cover story. This guy had no red flags against him, but a list of yellow ones a mile long. The usual collection of questionable, but not quite illegal, internet hits. He’d been suspected, but not actually accused, of writing anonymous erotica in high school. He went to the same church as Samuel Sikes, the Seattle bomber. Again, in high school he’d been friends with Damien Davies, the convicted pornographer. His name had been mentioned ‘under extreme duress’ by both a defrocked librarian and a female ex-coworker. A short list of girlfriends, all of them with dodgy, but not quite loose, moral ratings. He’d been in Boise two weeks before a bomb blast that had killed sixteen people. And he’d just bought tickets to Denver. Holy shit, no wonder they’d hauled him in.
He wasn’t bad looking, not at all. Even naked and in custody, he stood tall and defiant, doing his best to look unafraid. His genitals betrayed him, though. His gear was all shrunk up, tiny and wilted and trying desperately to hide. One of the nifty things about male equipment is that the flaccid state tells you almost nothing about the excited version. Under the right circumstances, this shriveled and cowering frightened little penis might well blossom into a proud, solid, aesthetically pleasing erection.
I spoke into the mic, “Warm him up.” And the Adepts did their job, bouncing him off the plywood walls like a dodge ball; punching him in the kidneys and gut; and kicking him roundly once he went down and stayed down. I liked these guys. Very professional. Some Adepts take way too much pleasure in their jobs; these fellows were all business.
“Let’s see what Mr. Ezra has to say,” I said, and in the room Melinda took over. The Adepts backed off, leaving him prone and gasping.
She nudged his penis with the tip of her boot. Classic. Implied threat. I love working with Melinda. “Let’s talk,” she deadpanned.
She worked him for the full twenty-five minutes, occasionally letting the Adepts step in and dribble him off the walls and floor, or hose him down with cold water, but mostly just asking questions: Where were you, when? What did you do there? Why did you make that trip? And always: names, names, names. He gave her nothing. He was either completely innocent, or doing a very good job of playing dumb.
We had a list to get through. “Let him go,” I said into the mic, “We’ll bring him back in tomorrow.”
Next up was a weepy adulteress from East Brooklyn. She was easy, but loud and shrill. I finished my first cup of coffee and poured another. The hangover was pounding between my ears. It was going to be a long old day.
I looked Ezra up after work. He was exactly where his personal file said he would be, in a medium-sketchy coffee saloon on the Lower East Side. I sipped decaf and watched him from across the room. He showed no sign of having been worked over that morning; but our Adepts are well-trained, and a Derma-Patch will work wonders on bruises and abrasions.
I went up to him. This was all way outside my brief, total yellow flag territory. “Pass the milk?” I bent over, practically dangling my cleavage in his face. Nothing. He looked up at me, smiled, handed me the little metal carafe. He was reading a novel; not exactly scripture, but nothing too racy either. I took the cream and went back to my seat, quietly seething. I sat and watched him read his book and sip his latte for the next hour.
He was a good looking man. I tried to picture him naked. I had, of course, already seen him at his nakedest, but with male nudity, it is all about the circumstances. And, I thought, under the circumstances of my bedroom, he’d look pretty good indeed.
The next day, I had the Adepts spend the first fifteen minutes of the session working over the soles of Ezra’s feet with rubber straps. He screamed until his voice was a ruined husk. “Please! Stop! No more! I’m a gardener, for God’s sake! I take care of plants!”
Melinda dumped a five-gallon bucket of ice water over his head, and the Adepts stepped out of the way. “Well, let’s talk then.” She squeezed his scrotum; technically in violation of protocol, but she always knew exactly how far to push it. “Give me some names.”
“I don’t have any names! I don’t know anything,” he sobbed. “I don’t know anyone.” I was embarrassed on his behalf.
I had the Adepts go back to work on his feet, beating them left-right-left with all the regularity of a metronome while Melinda waited, one eyebrow slightly raised, shadow of a smile on her face, pencil and notebook in hand, just waiting for him to name some names. We went four minutes long, and he screamed until his screams were a hideous choking croak, but not one name did he name.
Not that night, but two nights later, I saw him again at the sleazy coffee dive. He sat there, calm and composed as the Buddha, reading his novel and sipping his latte. He’d discreetly slipped his shoes off under the table.
“Is this seat taken?”
“Be my guest,” Ezra rasped. His larynx was still trashed.
I sat down next to him, letting my knee brush casually against his. He flinched as if I had just touched him with a live electric wire. I did it again, pressing my flesh against his, just to let him know it wasn’t an accident.
“This drip coffee isn’t too bad,” I said, “but I have a new espresso machine at home. Would you like to come over and try it out?”
As far as dropping hints, it was only slightly more subtle than pulling off my panties and waving them under his nose. Ezra wasn’t stupid, nor was he gay. He took the hint. He gingerly put his shoes back on, and we walked out the door together, arm in arm, and took a taxi back to my place.
Premarital sex is straight-up illegal, a big fat red flag. Fooling around, on the other hand, is a grey area, a statutory demilitarized zone; officially frowned on, unofficially permitted. As long as it is done discreetly, between a man and a woman, a little heavy petting is generally tolerated as a kind of pressure relief valve. Yellow flag at worst. We shamelessly and un-discreetly made out in the back of the cab all the way back to my place in Park Slope, while the driver tried hard to look like he wasn’t watching in the rear view mirror.
Ezra was a good kisser: neither too tentative, nor too sloppy. He kissed like a man who had some experience kissing, and I liked it. I snuggled up next to him in the back of the cab, enjoying the warmth and solidness of his body next to mine. I squeezed his erection through his pants. “I am going to eat you alive,” I whispered in his ear.
Back at my apartment, we wasted no time. His shoes came off first, followed by the rest of his clothes. He looked beautiful in this context; tall and lithe, he reminded me of some graceful bird. A crane, perhaps. His cock jutted out eagerly, thick and taut and proud.
I stripped down to my panties, leaving them on out of some vestigial sense of modesty, and we curled up together on my bed. We kissed and touched a little more. It was delectable. His cock got even harder than it had been before, straining purple and urgent. His balls were plump and warm. His feet were swollen, and there were bruises around his thighs from the restraints, but we didn’t talk about that. I got down to the business of sucking his dick.
It was a real pleasure to go down on him. He tasted clean and male, and he was trembling with excitement. Just trailing my tongue down the underside of his erection made him groan with pleasure. I kissed his balls, kissed his perineum, kissed the underside of his drooling glans. Then I swallowed him whole, lavishing my tongue all around the head while my hand stroked his shaft. He came hard, and he came fast, filling my mouth with his salty-bitter semen, hot and sticky and sexy beyond measure. I held him between my lips until he finally popped out, soft and spent.
We drank a little bathtub vodka, and kissed some more, his come fresh on my lips. He fingered me through my panties, and found my pussy wet and ready. As he probed my juicy pussy, his cock slowly got hard again, rising like a phoenix.
“I want you to fuck me,” I said, and I meant it.
“What?” his voice was painful to listen to.
“Fuck me,” I repeated. “There’s condoms in the top drawer.” Funny. Condoms are illegal, but everybody has them. Even the Inquisitor has a stash, tucked in under her prim and proper undies.
He pulled back hard. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m not sure I can do that for you. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Are you for fucking real?” I pulled back the crotch of my panties to reveal my hungry hole.
“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable with that… I’ll go down on you if you want.”
“Forget it,” I said. The moment had passed, my mood was shot. “Get dressed. Go home. I can take care of myself.”
Sullenly, I watched him get dressed and hobble out of my bedroom. I suppose I should have let him stay and have a go at licking my kitty, but that was not what I was in the mood for. My mail-order Canadian vibrator did the trick. It did the trick very nicely indeed, and when I was done I slept harder and deeper than I had in a long time.
I had Ezra pulled in again. Bumped him to the top of the list, and then skipped a few names past him, just to make him wait. We came back to him just after lunch. The Adepts brought him in, naked and obedient. I could smell his fear, all the way through the thick plexi window.
“Dunk him in the bucket,” I whispered to Melinda through my headset, “Four minutes.”
“Three minutes is the legal limit,” she subvocalized back, not telling me anything I didn’t know already. “Do you want to kill him?”
“Four and a half,” I said, “He’ll live.”
The burly Adepts crammed his head into the five gallon bucket, and held him there while he kicked and struggled. As the seconds ticked by, I felt my cunt getting wet and my clit tingling inside my uniform pants, and I know Melinda was feeling the same thing too. Four and a half minutes, not a second longer, and they yanked him out and dropped him on the floor, where he vomited profusely, coughing, choking and convulsing in a puddle of his own urine; his bladder had emptied involuntarily.
“Talk to me,” Melinda urged gently, towering above him.
“Fuck you,” he croaked.
“Take his fingernails,” I said.
Melinda did it herself, with a pair of stainless steel pliers. It only took three before he started singing. He named names for the next twenty-six minutes, as fast as she could write them down. He left the room a broken man, hands bandaged, head bowed.
Melinda and I screwed that weekend. I went over to her place, an austere apartment in a neo-art deco high-rise on the Upper East Side. I brought a briefcase full of files with me; if anyone asked, I was there for a business meeting.
We had been together before, but this was the first time we had ventured into full-on unadulterated red flag territory, which only made it all the more exciting.
Melinda possessed an exquisite, hand-carved strap-on walrus-tusk dildo, smuggled in from Canada, and she proceeded to fuck me with it. She did it exactly the way I had imagined Ezra doing it to me: from behind, tucked in close with her breasts pressed against my shoulders, tugging my hair and nipping at the back of my neck while she fucked my hungry pussy.
She fucked me hard and mercilessly. She pulled hard on my hair and drilled my cunt. She fucked me until I didn’t think I could take any more, and just as I was about to ask her ‘Please’, she released my hair, put one hand over my mouth, and reached down between my thighs with her other hand and found my clitoris. I came, screaming silently into her hand, impaled and writhing on her ivory phallus.
I gave just as good as I got. Melinda didn’t feel like getting fucked, so I licked instead, starting with her firm, perfect breasts, and working my way down to her petite, wet and slippery, red-hot little pussy. She was so sopping wet down there my face was more or less instantly coated with her juice. She tasted fresh and musky, a little bit salty, a little bit tangy. Her pea-sized clitoris was pink and swollen. I lapped up and down her vulva, parting her labia with my tongue, teasing her clit. I ventured down between her ass cheeks, experimentally brushing her tight, crinkled anus with the tip of my tongue. I was rewarded with a husky moan as she pressed back fiercely against me, spreading her cheeks wide for me. I drilled at the tight little hole with my tongue, straining to get deeper up her ass.
I ended up finger-fucking her asshole and her pussy at the same time, the flat of my tongue pressed hard against the bulging button of her clitoris. She came hard, her entire body shaking, chewing hard on her pillow to keep from screaming out loud. Her body squeezed my invading fingers spasmodically. It was deeply gratifying.
Afterward, we kissed and cuddled for a long while, and inevitably, we both got excited all over again. This time we both did it with our fingers, lying face to face on her bed, kissing throughout as we molested each others’ wet and slippery pussies, and when we both came, our lips were pressed together, and we moaned softly into each other’s open mouth.
I would have liked to have spent the night, wrapped comfortably in her arms, but that would have been far too dangerous, so instead I got dressed, packed up my briefcase, checked my hair and wiped my face, crotch, and pits with a moist towelette, and took the elevator down to the lobby, past an impartial-looking doorman who, I’m sure missed nothing, and out into the street. I hailed a taxi, and rode back to my place in Brooklyn. Alone.
Her scent still lingered on my fingers.
Early on Monday morning, a bomb went off at the Denver office of the Department of Moral Hygiene. Six people were killed outright, dozens more wounded. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to care.