by Jewel Geffen
Once or twice a week they would make love. It wasn't flashy, but it satisfied him and he was fairly sure it satisfied her too. It was quite nice, given how much sexual misery and relationship drama was involved in his work, to have a nice calm and simple marriage.
He was happy.
Their main concern, of course, was financial. School teachers hardly made anything, and being a PI wasn't exactly the most lucrative career path in the world. They were keeping their heads above water, but things were tight enough that him getting a good job like this one was enough to really celebrate over.
He reached around behind her and started to fiddle with her bra strap. It didn't seem to want to work properly. He bit his lower lip. “Dammit...” he muttered.
She laughed. “Let me.”
He sat back, a little embarrassed, and he watched her remove the undergarment. She slipped it off and let it fall, the straps sliding down her bare upper arms. The plain white cups fell from her, revealing the pale shape of her perfect breasts. Perfect to him, anyway. He couldn't imagine wanting anything else.
He leaned forward, cupping one breast in his hand, and he lowered his face so that his mouth covered the perky pink nipple. She giggled and twisted away. “Ah, that tickles! You need to shave.”
He rolled his eyes, and gave her breast a squeeze. She had freckles, very pale, across her chest. He loved just looking at then, tracing lines between them with his eyes as if he was inventing constellations.
She wrapped her arms around him and they rolled over onto the bed. She giggled again, but the laughter stopped when he reached down and guided himself into her. Her smile faded and was replaced with a kind of dreamy intensity, her eyes wide and unfocused and her lips parted in a silent gasp.
He grasped her hips and slowly pushed himself deeper inside of her.
“Oh God, Scotty... God, that's just what I've been needing...”
“Me too,” he murmured, and lay down on top of her.
He started to shift his hips forward, rocking slowly at first, then faster. She moaned in response, her hands caressing his back and his shoulders as he plowed away at her.
“Oh baby,” she whimpered, “oh, that's so nice... that's so nice... don't stop... God, it feels good, don't stop...”
“I... Oh wow, I... I can't-”
“Don't stop, Scotty, don't stop! Oh my God, yes, I... I'm going to-”
He groaned suddenly, and pulled back hard. It took every ounce of his will power, but he jerked his hips backwards. A spurt of cum splashed across Julie's thigh. He groaned, his whole body tingling as the energy of his orgasm ebbed through his body.
He slumped down beside her, breathing hard, his back and forehead sticky with sweat. Due to the heat, he supposed. He lay there for a long moment, just riding out the blissful feeling, then he turned and looked at his wife. “Was that good for you, baby?”
She smiled slightly, not meeting his gaze. “Yes, honey. It was very nice,” she whispered, her cheeks flushed.
He leaned in and gave her a quick little peck on the cheek. “Thanks, babe.”
She reached over to run her hand through his hair. “You're welcome, sweetheart.”
Scott let out a long breath. That had been good. Julie was always good. He had to focus though, had to get his mind back on the job. He had a lot of work laid out before him.
First step, he thought to himself as he got out of bed and toweled his sticky skin clean, he had to talk to a certain professor.
What's your story, James Cain? And what was it about him that drove those women to such heights of ecstasy? Scott had a feeling that it was going to be an interesting conversation.
Chapter Seven
Scott sat in the university hall, his hands in his jacket pockets and his feet crossed in front of him. He watched the clock slowly ticking.
One of the secretaries had been generous enough to let him know when and where to find Professor Cain, so here he sat, waiting and watching.
A few students eyed him strangely as they walked past, but most ignored him. These were young kids, and they had little to no interest in the lives of anybody older than twenty-five. Their world was restricted in a practical sense to the campus grounds, and everything outside of it was just a vague idea to them.
The clock hit two, and right on the button the door opened the students started streaming out into the hall, chattering and laughing as they tucked their books and papers into their messenger bags as they went.
He couldn't help but notice that the large majority of Cain's students were white. He wondered how they'd take it – and, more importantly, how their parents would take it – if they found out about Professor Cain's activities. He hadn't been entire convinced by Mason, and it was his policy to keep an open mind about everything right until the end, but a part of him mentally crossed Cain off the suspects list.
The Professor left the classroom last. He was a well-dressed man, elegantly attired in a smart gray suit. He wore a pair of small half-moon glasses that glittered under the florescent lights. His clothes disguised the raw animal power of his muscled physique, but they couldn't hide his towering height or the commanding manner in which he held himself. He stepped into the hall and paused, looking down at Scott for a long moment over the tops of his frames.
Scott leaned forward and grinned. “Howdy, Prof.”
“May I help you?” Cain asked, his voice low and sonorous, almost regal.
“I'm in the employ of a mutual acquaintance,” Scott said, “a Mr. Reginald Mason.”
“Hm, indeed?”
“Yes sir, I am. And I was hoping that you might be able to answer a few questions for me.”
James Cain sighed heavily, though there was more of a hint of irritation in it rather than resignation. As if Scott were a problem that he'd soon dismiss, though he was loath to spend the time doing it.
“Is there a problem, Prof?”
“Not at all. Reggie told me that you'd be coming. An appointment would be preferable, in the future. I have an exact scheduled here, and I don't submit to questioning out in the halls of my school.”
Scott felt his eyes narrow. There was nothing especially aggressive or evasive in Cain's tone, but the man obviously wasn't going to allow himself to be pushed around. He was already taking control of the exchange. “I'll keep that in mind,” he said. “So where can we talk?”
“I have a meeting,” Cain said, and started to turn to go.
Scott half rose from the bench. “I think that Misses Kendall appreciate it if we could clear this up as soon as possible, Professor. I'm sure that all the others would as well.”
James Cain half turned back. “Others?” he rumbled, a little bit dangerously.
Scott nodded. “That's right. All the others. Where can we talk?”
Cain hesitated for just a moment. “My office,” he said finally, and gave a nod down the hall, “come with me.”
* * *
“Heavy clothes for a heatwave,” Scott observed, nodding the Professor's suit.
“They are. I believe that presenting a professional appearance for my students encourages them on some level to treat the material more seriously than they otherwise might. And I see that you're wearing a coat yourself.”
Scott tugged at the lapels of his ragged old duster. “I like to have a lot of pockets.”
“I fail to see the relevance of my garments to the matter at hand.”
Scott leaned back. “Relax, Professor. I'm on your side here. Mason hired me to sort this issue out discreetly, and that's what I plan to do. My interest here is in making all of your problems go away so that you lot can all go back to doing whatever it is you do.”
“I see.” Cain's voice gave nothing away, but he did seemed at least slightly more at ease than he had a moment ago.
Scott reached into one of the many pockets of his duster and took out the parcel of photos. “Did Mason tell you about these?”
The Professor frowned and pushed his glasses up a little fur
ther on his nose. “No, what are they?”
“The pictures that were inside that camera you snatched.”
“Are they now...?”
“That's right, and it might come as a bit of a surprise to you that you're prominently featured.”
“Am I?”
“That's right. You and more than a dozen different women. I'm sure it won't shock you, seeing as you were there at the time they were taken, but they're intimate photos, Prof.”
Cain frowned. “Intimate? In the sense that they depict sexual activity?”
“Bingo. Somebody's been peeping on you. They've got your number, and they're using you to amass a hell of a collection of evidence. Blackmail seems like the most likely reason, but we're not totally sure yet.”
“Using me?” Cain asked. His voice turned deadly cold, and Scott realized that he was very glad not to be in the shoes of the fellow who'd taken the pictures right about now.
“That's right. Have you noticed anybody following you lately? Anything strange going on? Anything at all?”
James Cain drummed his finger on his desk. “There... there have been incidents... that's true...”
“What sort of incidents?”
Outside the office there was a clatter. One of the secretaries knocking something over. Or maybe listening at the door?
Cain shook his head. “Not here. Is there somewhere more private we can discuss this?”
Scott shrugged. “Can you come by my office?”
“I certainly can. Tonight?”
“That's fine.”
“Good... I think that there is a great deal which we need to talk about, Mr. Chapel.”
Chapter Eight
“Tell me about these incidents you mentioned.”
Professor James Cain was looking slowly around the room, his dark eyes drinking in everything. Scott could tell from the other man's face that he was cataloging and assessing everything, putting it all swiftly in order and forming a judgment based upon it.
He couldn't help shifting a bit nervously in his seat, wishing he'd tided up just a little bit better, or that his office was fancier than it was, or just that it wasn't located in the back room of his little house.
There was something about Cain; he seemed to naturally take control of any situation or interaction, even here in Scott's own office. He had a natural sense of command that reminded Scott of the great screen icons of the western films he'd used to watch with his dad, all that steely-eyed resolve and masculine leadership.
“It began about a month ago,” he finally said, and turned to look at Scott.
“What did?”
“I started to notice little things. Objects out of place, cars that seemed to be following behind mine just a bit too long, unfamiliar faces that seemed to show up more frequently than before. At first I took it as nothing more than stress. A kind of paranoia.”
“And you've never felt that way before?”
“I presented anthropological paper last week at an academic conference in New York. I assumed at the time that the feeling was simply a result of my increased workload.”
Scott picked up a scrap of paper from his desk and started idly to fold it. “What was the paper about?”
“The cultural impact of sexual dimorphism across different ethnic backgrounds.”
Scott whistled. “Lot of big words there.”
“Hm. Essentially it concerns the study of the ways in which men and women differ anatomically, and the amount that variance changes from one race to the next. My paper was an analysis of the ways those differences have proportionately impacted different societies.”
“So... basically it's about how Asian chicks have small boobs and black guys have big dongs?”
Cain made a bit of a face, but he had to concede that Scott was, broadly if crassly speaking, more or less correct.
“After I presented the paper I felt a good deal more relaxed, but the strange occurrences continued to happen. I still had the feeling of being watched.”
“Did you ever get that sensation when you were...? I don't know what to call it.”
“When I was with a woman?”
Fucking a white man's wife, I was going to say. “Yeah.”
“I don't remember thinking so. Though clearly I was in fact being watched. Several times, it seems. I must say, in such instances... my mind was focused closely on the task at hand.”
“How do you meet these women, anyway? Mason arrange it all for you?”
Cain snorted. “Hardly. Misses Kendall was a special case. I rarely consent to meet with women I haven't formed an attachment to.”
“An attachment? What, like... you go out on dates? With other men's wives?”
“That's correct.” The Professor nodded, his hands folded in his lap. He seemed as comfortable discussing this as another man might be talking about the weather. “Though I feel the term 'date' has an edge of immaturity to it, don't you? Conjures images of high school and youth, in my mind. This is something different.”
“Huh.”
“We meet usually at the Club.”
“Mason's club.”
“He is the proprietor, yes, though I only occasionally see him there. I visit perhaps once or twice a week – though less frequently recently, as I've been occupied with my work. Often I meet a woman there, either one I know or a new face.”
“And you hit on them? Like picking a girl up at a bar?” Scott could hardly believe what he was hearing. A black man openly discussion that fact that he regularly seduced and bedded other men's wives. All those white women...
Cain chuckled. “I wouldn't say so, no. Usually, they approach me. I find that women often recommend me to other women, their friends and confidants. They know that I'll provide them with a service they can't get anywhere else.”
“And what service might that be?” Scott asked, his throat just a little dry.
The Professor smiled gently. “I give them something their husbands can't, Mr. Chapel.”
Just then, as if on cue, the door creaked open. Scott looked up, a sudden surge of panic shooting through him.
Julie's head popped in, copper red hair swaying, and the rest of her followed. She'd come in from poking about in her garden, and she was only wearing a tight white undershirt, stuck to her skin with perspiration and clinging to her shapely breasts. He could just make out the faint sight of her nipples making their presence known through the material.
“Scotty, did you want a sandwich for lunch or-” her eyes widened and her already red cheeks flushed further. “Oh... I'm so sorry; I didn't realize you were working. Excuse me.”
“Not at all,” James Cain said smoothly, turning in his chair to drink in the sight of her. His posture seemed to change slightly, his entire demeanor shifting.
Scott could feel the air change, a subtle tension filling the spaces between the three of them, a rising heat. That was just in his head though, wasn't it? Julie wasn't really staring intently at the black man, her green eyes alight with intrigue and hunger. She couldn't be, could she? That was only his imagination.
“Not a problem, hon,” he said, clearing his throat awkwardly, “we're fine. Could you get the door?”
“Of course,” she said softly. With one final lingering glance at the Professor, she slipped back out and closed the door softly behind herself.
Cain turned back to look at Scott. There was a hint of a smile on his lips, Scott thought. “You have a very beautiful wife, Mr. Chapel.”
“Thanks,” Scott grunted. “Let's keep on track, though. You meet these women at the Black and White Club, you arrange to see them. Then, what... you just drive over there?”
“Usually I take the women out to dinner, first. I find that fine conversation and fine food sets the atmosphere. You can learn a lot about a woman's sexual appetites by watching her eat. That's my theory, anyway.”
“Fascinating. So nobody else is involved? Nobody at the club?”
Cain shook his head. “No one. I come on my ow
n recognizance. No middleman, or anything like that. I think I can see what you're driving at, though. You want to know how this person is finding out who I'm meeting with and where, is that right?”
“More or less.”
“I have a suspicion of my own about that. At first I thought that there must be somebody at the club, perhaps an employee – a bartender, maybe – who was watching me. But I rarely go directly from the Club to a woman's home. Usually I'll arrange to meet again at a later date in a more private setting.”
“So how are they doing it?”
“I have a date book. I keep it secured in my desk at home in a locked drawer. The names and dates of the women I'm seeing are kept in there. May I see those pictures of yours?”
Scott nodded, and handed the photos over.
Cain scanned through them, seeming to catalog them as he went. After a moment he passed them back, a satisfied expression on his face. “As I thought.”
“What is it? What's there?”
“It's what isn't there, Mr. Chapel. It seems our voyeur was present very nearly every time I met with somebody over the last three weeks.”
“Nearly every time?”
“There seems to be only one exception. I met a woman at the Club last Tuesday. I gave her my phone number. Her husband didn't know she was coming to the Club, and she never told me her name, said she wanted to remain anonymous. She arranged to pick me up herself, and that she would call me ahead of time to tell me when.”
“And you did that?” Scott asked, slightly aghast. Having sex with a married woman was bad enough when her husband knew about it, but to do it anyway even when he didn't. Scott knew he shouldn't be surprised. He'd investigated dozens of cases just like that, after all.
“It's not the usual way I do things, but the woman seemed as if she was quite desperate for my attentions, and I agreed to make an exception. The point is, I never wrote her name or a date in my book. Every other one of these was written in there.”
“I see... so you think that somebody broke in and read the book?”