Psychic Detective
Fletchina Archer
Have you ever wondered what it would be like to make love with another woman?
Ronda does, and the more her husband ignores her, the more intense her fantasies, the more she masturbates, and the stronger the urge becomes to find out. Until Ronda is in a coffee shop fantasizing about making love with a woman she saw in the library, when the woman appears at her table and introduces herself as Angela, a detective with psychic powers. Ronda is only convinced when Angela accurately describes Ronda's fantasies and fears that her husband is having an affair.
As Angela shows her the many ways women make love with each other, the two become involved in a deeply emotional relationship in which they share Jeff and his fate as the global corporate empire which has taken his attention from his wife crumbles around him.
Step into Angela's psychic world to know the hidden intentions of those around you as well as their most intimate feelings, fantasies, thoughts and sensations, even in their most secret moments.
Fletchina Archer
Psychic Detective
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Chapter One
The few tables and all of the window counters in the brightly lit coffee shop were full. People hunched over laptop computers, spread newspapers over tables, and peered intently into books they had just taken out of the city library across the street.
The thought patterns that bombarded Angela Simmons from all directions as she approached the counter echoed the foggy mist forming in the darkening gray sky outside.
“French roast,” she said.
“Grandissimo, Supremero or Ventissimo?” asked the slight dark-haired barista.
“Big.”
The ring in the girl’s nose flashed as she pointed to the middle-sized cup with a questioning eyebrow.
Angela nodded.
She looked again at the tables, wishing someone would get up and leave. Frowning in concentration, the guy in the cardigan sweater leaned more intently over his computer. Angela’s mind was caught in the thick fog of mundane thoughts. The stock market is down, Jenny got her first period this morning, I need to get milk on the way home, the United Nations contemplates action to combat global poverty, the broccoli at the produce counter looked yellowish-brown, how will tornadoes in the Midwest affect insurance rates, was Sean doing his math homework, the car sounded funny, soy bean production is down in Brazil… Thought fog. She tried to tune it out.
“Do you want room for cream?”
“No, thanks.”
“One-sixty-five.”
A highway opened through the murkiness. Angela fumbled the two dollar bills she was taking from her purse when she looked toward the table to the right side of the counter. Five-eight, Angela guessed, mid-thirties, well-coiffed, close-cropped dark brunette. Loose tan cashmere pullover. Well-off, good taste. Oval face, sensuous lips, high cheekbones…
The woman looked up, her eyes fastening on Angela’s for a brief moment before they swept around the room and returned to the book in front of her. In that instant something…
Blue eyes. Lingered on me too long. Maybe because she was in the library when I was and thought she recognized me. But no, something else in that look. Something in the way she looked back to her book. You can never rely on things like that.
“One-sixty-five?” the barista repeated.
Angela handed her the two dollars and took her change.
The miasma of Brazilian soybeans, worries about kids, cars, supper and husbands descended over Angela’s awareness.
And there it was again, as clear as day, a pattern of thought. Different from Soybeans’ concerns with kids, business and domestic stuff. Not just one thought, but a pattern writhing with sensuality, slippery with anticipation, opulent and smooth to the touch, stretching like fingers reaching out of quicksand, hoping against hope for rescue from the insuperable, irresistible downward force. Alluring for its unbridled physical appeal that Angela felt herself responding to, but threatening because of its forceful, earthy-what was it-hesitation? Doubt? Suspicion? That feeling of being trapped, of wanting but lacking? She couldn’t name it.
The fog thinned with each step Angela took toward the brunette. The woman looked up from her book just as Angela approached her table.
“May I join you? It looks like all the other places are taken.”
“Yes, I was trying to read, but I can’t concentrate. Weren’t you just in the library? I think I saw you as I was checking out.”
“Yes, I was doing some research over there.”
“Oh? What kind?” she said, putting down the book.
“Corporate. Checking out who owns what.”
“Oh, are you a business researcher?”
Angela laughed. “Sometimes it feels like it. No, I’m a detective.”
“Police?”
“No, not that kind. I don’t find criminals. I’m a love detective.”
The man at the computer scowled at Angela but quickly turned his gaze to the woman at the window counter speaking into her cell phone. He snapped his computer shut and left. The woman with the cell phone continued chatting as she packed up her belongings in her purse and followed him out.
“A love detective?”
Two other people left the counter and the barista came around the bar and began cleaning the tables and counters next to the windows as the place emptied.
“That’s shorthand. People come to me with their relationship problems.”
“And that gets you into corporate research?”
“Sometimes, yes. That’s where it got me today.”
“Hot on a case?”
“Yes, but I can’t talk about it.”
“Secret stuff?”
“Let’s just say confidential. If I worked for you, you wouldn’t want me telling everyone I ran into at a coffee shop about your life, would you?”
“There’s not much to tell.”
Angela smiled.
“What does that smile mean?” The brunette looked at Angela over the rim of her coffee cup.
“Everyone has something interesting to tell.” Angela sipped the hot, bitter brew in her mug.
“Well, suppose I wanted to hire you.”
“To find out about your husband?”
“You know?”
“Elementary, my dear Watson. I observe the wedding band on your left ring finger. I observe a diamond ring. I see how you dress, your handbag, your hair, your manicure, and I conclude that you are well-off. You are here on a workday afternoon. If you are well-off, you do not freelance. You are here, so you are not working. Ergo, you may be an heiress or a beneficiary of a trust fund or you have a husband with a large inc
ome. Or all three, or two of three. But you were in the library to actually check out a book. A book a person of wealth would have purchased to put in the library at the house. Rich people have libraries. There is probably one in your house, but you are not accustomed to buying books. Ergo, you did not grow up with wealth. I conclude that your husband is the source of the wealth. If your husband were available, you’d be with him. Or, because you are a beautiful woman, he’d be with you. He is not. You are not. Ergo, he is not free. I conclude he is working. If that’s so, he’s probably working all the time, in meetings, traveling, and in contact with a lot of powerful and beautiful women. That’s enough to worry any wife. And the ones that are really worried find me and ask me to help them.”
“You’re amazing, Holmes,” she said leaning back in her chair. “My name is Ronda Moore.”
“Glad to meet you, Ronda, I’m Angela Simmons.”
Angela reached into her purse and extracted a card.
“Angela Simmons, Psychic Detective? What’s the psychic part?”
“That’s why I don’t do police work. That depends on proof. I need to know more than who did what with or to whom when and where. I need to know motives. Why they did what they did.”
“Does it matter?”
“It can.”
The barista returned behind the bar to polish her coffee-making machines as the last of the other patrons left.
“You read people’s minds?”
“Sort of…”
“I don’t believe in that kind of stuff. Can you tell me what I’m thinking?”
“You are afraid that at thirty-six your breasts are no longer perky, that you are losing your looks and that you are no longer attractive to your husband because he spends so much time apart from you and hardly touches you anymore. You suspect he may be fucking other women because you think he can have any woman he wants.”
“Yeah, but you don’t have to read my mind to know that. You deduced it from my clothes and jewelry, right?”
“Okay, you think that you masturbate way too much, maybe excessively because you do yourself at least once a day and some days two or three times. You were in the library to check out books about women’s fantasies because you’ve become bored with your own. You are afraid of some of your fantasies. You fantasize about being tied up and taken, something you know you’d never want in real life. You fantasize about fucking a stranger in a public place like this coffee shop and people gathering around to watch and applauding when you come. You fantasize and sometimes think about being spanked, and you think it’s dangerous because if you enjoy pain, you might be a masochist and get caught up in the whole S and M thing.”
“Not much of a deduction, is it? Chances are any woman masturbates fairly frequently. At least a few times a week. And most more. Daily. And those are pretty standard fantasies.”
“But it’s not standard to worry about them.”
“Anything else?”
“When your husband is with you, which is much less than you’d like, you fantasize about other men.”
“That’s also usual. Anything that might be unique to me? Now?”
“Yes.” Angela leaned toward the center of the table and whispered. “When I was getting my coffee, you glanced up at me and you were wondering what it would be like to make love with me. For some time, you’ve been attracted to other women sexually, but you haven’t had the nerve to suggest it to anyone because you are afraid that you are strange to have those feelings. You worry that you might be a lesbian. Specific about you? You were having a fantasy about you and me in the sauna at your house and-”
“Okay, you’ve convinced me. And knowing all of that, you still came over here and sat down at the table with me?”
“Yes, I did. Knowing all that. And the answer to the other question you didn’t say is yes, I would like to. That’s why you can’t hire me as a detective.”
--
He wants me ready by six so we can go to some fancy restaurant with some of his business associates for dinner. They’ll talk about stuff I don’t know anything about and I’ll feel stupid and left out. They’ll sit around drinking wine until eleven, then we’ll come home and he’ll go to sleep. Maybe if I put on something sexy, he’ll pay attention. If he doesn’t, maybe someone else will and he’ll be jealous enough to notice me.
The garage door slid into place with a soft thunk as Ronda got out of her expensive low-slung black sports car and went into the Frank Lloyd Wright house. Not a knockoff, not an imitation, but an original not that far from the architect’s own house.
She undressed in front of the full-length mirror in her walk-in closet.
They may not be that perky, but they’re still firm, she thought as she cupped one hand under each breast. She appraised her body critically. I could stand to lose a few pounds. But when was that not true? I’ve always thought I should be thinner than the one hundred forty or one hundred forty-five pounds I’ve always been. I’d look better at one hundred thirty-five. She ran her hands down her stomach and across her hips as her eyes dwelt on her smooth pubis. I thought maybe he’d notice when I shaved down there. But she had found that she liked herself smooth, so she began having herself waxed every couple of weeks to stay silky soft to her own touch even if Jeff never noticed. He doesn’t have that much chance to notice anything about me.
Sexy. Something short and black. Clingy knit. No bra. She opened a drawer and rummaged in it. Garter belt? No, I don’t want any lines. Nothing under. Sheer black stockings. Thigh-high to give it that tarty look. Closing the drawer, she took the short, tight knit dress from the hanger and held it in front of herself. Yeah, that’ll work. Tight across the butt and stomach, it’ll show off my thighs. Ugh, maybe not. Maybe they’re too fat. Oh well, best I can do. Some cleavage showing. If I lean down, a good view of my breasts to the nipples. It’ll do.
She laid the dress on Jeff’s side of the king-sized bed beside the stockings and went into the bathroom that was as big as some people’s living rooms, past the wooden sauna to a large sunken bathtub. She sprinkled bath salts into the tub and turned on the water.
As the crystals dissolved in the steaming water, Ronda stepped into the tub and lay on her back, letting the hot water cascade over her feet.
She stroked her nipples to erectness, and then pinched them both hard between her thumbs and forefingers, wondering what it would be like to be dressed only in a tight leather bra and thigh-length high-heeled boots and have someone turn her over their knees and spank her bare butt. Her butt warmed at the thought of the stinging of the spanking. I’m becoming a pervert.
She pulled her feet toward her butt and ran her hands down the insides of her thighs and opened her labia with the index finger of her right hand. She didn’t move her right hand as she leaned forward to turn off the water with her left hand. Relaxing on her back again, the aromatic hot water engulfing her, she reached down with her left hand to open herself to her own touch and began stroking the tip of her index finger around her clitoris.
She was trying to imagine what it would be like to be with another woman. To be with Angela. What would Angela do? What would I do? How does it work? Who does what? She knew the effect of every touch of her own hands on her body, whether it felt good or not. She knew when her vagina was wet and when her clitoris was hard. She had her body and her fingertips to tell her. But would another woman know? Jeff sure never did. He would stop just when he should be stroking faster or press too hard when he should be gentle or go too fast too soon. What was so simple to her was so impossible for him. Maybe he just gave up.
An image of Angela formed in Ronda’s mind. In a flowered one-piece bathing suit Angela walked toward the naked figure of Ronda and embraced her. Ronda stroked Angela’s bare arms, took the straps of the bathing suit between her thumbs and forefingers, and slowly peeled the suit down Angela’s body.
Angela smiled and stepped out of the suit as it fell to the floor. She reached for Ronda’s hand and placed it firmly on he
r bare mons. Or did she have pubic hair? Probably. Angela put Ronda’s hand on the coarse curls of her pubic hair and shifted her weight on her feet to open herself to Ronda’s exploring fingers. Angela tilted her head forward to invite a kiss and Ronda responded by leaning into the kiss, her mouth open, her tongue welcoming the other woman’s into her mouth.
Ronda stroked her bare pubis with her left hand as her right finger circled her clitoris, now large and hard with the excitement of the fantasy. She dipped her finger between her labia into the hot fluid that was flowing from her cunt to lubricate her clitoris. The hot water was interfering, diluting the moisture from her cunt. Ronda opened her eyes and reached to the drain to lower the level of the water. When the level of the water was lower, Ronda closed the drain, closed her eyes, and leaned back to start stroking the underside of her engorged clitoris. Her left hand squeezed her labia together to make her clit protrude and hold it in position.
Angela pressed her pubis hard against Ronda’s, rubbing her thick, almost bristly, pubic hair onto Ronda’s pubis, and with her hands on Ronda’s hips, pulled her closer as she started to thrust her pussy against Ronda. “That’s right,” Angela whispered hoarsely, “fuck me with your fingers.” Angela’s cunt was dripping and hot. “Now let me do something for you. Lay back on the chaise lounge. That’s right.” Angela guided Ronda’s naked form onto the chaise and knelt between her legs at the end. Angela’s tongue avidly sought Ronda’s clitoris and began stroking it hard and fast. The soft warmth of Angela’s tongue brought Ronda to the verge of cataclysm and then slowed.
Ronda’s finger circled her clitoris again as she strove to postpone her orgasm. She pulled her labia out and stroked down the length of the opening of her vagina before she returned to her clitoris.
A guy with an indistinct face approached Angela from the rear. His erect cock signaled that he appreciated Angela’s beauty. Angela sensed his presence and raised her ass toward him as she continued the fast-paced warm pressure on Ronda’s clitoris. The man knelt behind Angela and inserted his cock into her glistening cunt from behind and she began to sigh with pleasure.
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