When she lifts her mouth from my throat, I stand and, without a word, push her back on the bed. Startled, she falls onto her back and I climb on top of her, straddling her waist. I catch her wrists in my hands, pinning her to the bed, arms outstretched. I keep my expression neutral, leaving her to guess what my intentions towards her are. I can see that I caught her off guard. She bucks against my weight with futile persistence. I may be small, but she isn’t any bigger. This is a fair contest and, right now, I have the upper-hand. I lean down to whisper in her ear.
“You want something from me? I think you should admit that you were wrong.” She shakes her head, refusing to cooperate and I shift my weight to glide my thigh between her legs. She catches her breath, making her breasts rise irresistibly. Even trying to keep my eyes on her face, I can’t help following the movement. Still pinning her in place, I catch the hem of her blouse in my teeth and lift until her glorious breasts are exposed. She is still wearing a bra; unfortunately, it doesn’t clasp in front. I cannot remove it with my teeth. But her hard nipples raise the fabric of her bra making them easy to locate with my greedy mouth. I suckle her through the fabric and she cries out in pleasure and begins to move against me, rubbing herself against my thigh.
“I am angry with you.” I confide in her ear as she grinds her pelvis against me, panting and whimpering with need. “And I want you to admit that you were wrong.” She looks at me desperately, trying to flail but unable to move her arms. She is helpless and too far extended to pretend that she doesn’t want this. She shakes her head again and I abruptly lift my pelvis away from hers in response. The human pole between her legs is now gone.
“I was wrong” she concedes, all dignity lost. “I was wrong. Please, don’t stop. I love you. I always have. You were right. Just please fuck me!”
Letting go of her arms, I rip her clothes off and, once again, straddle her, only this time, she is naked. I am dressed and she is naked. Enjoying the contrast of her bare skin against the rough denim of my jeans, I devour her with my greedy eyes first, drinking in the decadent swell of her breasts and enticing dips along her collarbone. I don’t wait too long, though. I know that she is ready. Letting her take the weight of my legs and torso while propping myself up with my left arm, I reach my right hand between our bodies and slide 3 fingers inside her. The weight of my own body pushes my hand deeper inside her. She is mine, I think over and over again as I work my hand in and out, slamming her into the bed with each thrust. She is mine. She wraps her legs around my waist and digs her fingernails into my scalp as though chanting the same mantra: She is mine!
Her pleasure is my pleasure and I take it gladly. I feel Hannah contract around my hand. She releases her grip on my hair and relaxes into the mattress, seemingly satisfied. But I am not done with her yet. I’ve expressed my anger. Now I need to express my love. Leaving my hand inside her, I kneel between her legs and bend down to drink from her. I carefully circle her with the tip of my tongue, knowing that pleasure that is too intense can feel like pain. Now is the time for pleasure: pure, sweet pleasure. I delicately fondle her with my tongue until I sense her rising excitement. Peering up through wisps of blond hair, I gaze across the prone landscape of her body to where her head is thrown back on the pillow, eyes closed. She is moaning in pleasure. When she snakes a hand down to the back of my head, pressing my mouth more firmly against her, I know that she is ready. I take her into my mouth and gently suck. She lifts her hips off the bed as she drives herself harder into my face. As I suck her, I gently flick the tip with my tongue. She can’t get enough.
She sits up and gestures for me to move with her. She presses me back into the bed and straddles my face, lowering herself onto my waiting mouth. I grip her thighs with my hands and bury my face in her. As she moves on me, she finds one of my hands and guides it to her. I slide my fingers inside her. I twirl my fingers in circles insider her while simultaneously twirling her with my tongue. Bracing her hands against the headboard of the bed, she rocks and moans until the building pleasure erupts in waves inside her beautiful body.
Lying down beside me, she kisses me deeply. My mouth tastes like her, sweet and salty. She places a hand on my stomach, underneath my shirt, and glides it up my ribs and down to my navel.
“Your turn,” she says contentedly as she unbuttons my jeans.
Gregory
On midmorning rounds I’m discovered in the jail cell and released. The officer who finds me looks shocked and, though he is quick to hide it, I see his embarrassment on my behalf. It’s all too easy to imagine what he sees when he looks at me: an older sheriff, disarmed and jailed by a pretty girl. As soon as I am released, I replace my missing revolver. The next thing I do is sit down in front of my computer and type the name Hannah Jaffe into the system. Immediately, I see that she was arrested for the murder of a man in Los Angeles and released on bail only the day before. What’s the connection? Hannah arrested for murder a day after Chloe arrested for murder almost 200 miles away? Well, the first step towards getting some answers is to bring in Chloe Portman and Hannah Jaffe for questioning. Which means I need to find them.
I’m on my way to my cruiser, intending to check Chloe Portman’s cabin first, when the phone on my desk rings.
“Sheriff Kean. What can I do for you?”
“In a big rush to track down little Chloe and Hannah, are you?” says a muffled male voice on the other end. “Lucky for you, they’re exactly where you think they are; the cabin. Unlucky for you, they are to remain there. Leave them alone and play the game or people will die.”
“What…”
Click. The line is dead. Something very strange is going on here. Who was that man and how is he involved? I don’t like being threatened any more than anyone else but I can’t risk putting innocent lives on the line. Instead of rushing off to the cabin, I decide to do some more digging into the case. It turns out that Chloe Portman used to live in Los Angeles at the same address as Hannah Jaffe. They might have been roommates, but Jaffe earns a decent salary as a lawyer. It’s unlikely that she would need a room-share arrangement. Most likely, they were lovers. That makes sense. I only saw them together for a few moments, under harrowing circumstances, but they seemed close and familiar like lovers. They must have separated, though. Portman wasn’t just having a writer’s retreat in the mountains of Northern California. She had arranged for her mail to be forwarded to Visalia. The likelihood of two female ex lovers plotting together to kill 2 different men in 2 different counties is very small.
I’m still digging when the phone rings again. Thinking it might be the mystery voice again, I grab the phone off the receiver on the first ring.
“Sheriff Kean. What is it?”
“Sheriff Kean, something terrible has happened!” I hear a hysterical woman’s voice on the line. She’s getting her words out in between great gulping sobs. I recognize the voice as my son’s third grade teacher, Mrs. Ingleton.
“Mrs. Ingleton, is that you?”
“I can’t believe it happened. It can’t be real. My husband, he killed my husband. I was just at the store for a few minutes. There was a man standing over Stan’s bed when I got back with a knife in his hands. He’s gone. My husband is gone forever.” She starts sobbing uncontrollably.
“I’ll be right there.”
When I arrive at Mrs. Ingleton’s house, I find her crying and rocking herself forward and backward on a chair just outside the bedroom. Glancing inside the open doorway, I’m not surprised she positioned herself outside of the room. I lay a hand on her shoulder and explain that I’ll be back in a moment to take a statement. The room looks like an ordinary bedroom aside from the man lying on the bed. He’s still in his pajamas, wrapped in a blanket. The killer stabbed him through the heart and blood is staining the pale blue comforter. The oddest thing about the crime scene is that there is a page that looks like it was ripped out of a book lying on top of the dead man’s stomach.
Peering closely at the page, careful not to touch a
nything until the crime scene has been photographed and processed, I read a short, violent scene involving a madman playing a game of riddles. The author’s name at the top of the page is Chloe Portman. Something clicks into place in my mind; I’ve seen cases of unhinged fans going too far before. We have a madman on our hands. He’s playing games, toying with the very person who wrote this book. He’s recreating the drama in real life. I step into the hall to speak with Mrs. Ingleton. I take her statement and she repeats herself, adding only that the killer tore a page out of a book to leave on the body and that he then ran away. I thank her for keeping her head, thereby helping with the investigation, and speak quietly with her for a few minutes, trying to comfort her in her sudden and terrible loss.
When a squadron of officers and crime scene investigators arrive to comb through the scene, I take my leave. I need to speak with Chloe and Hannah. My gut tells me they are innocent; we should pool our information and work together to find this deranged killer. I risk going to the cabin and, pulling in, see Hannah’s Camry parked in front, as expected.
The door is bolted shut, of course. I bang on the door until I see a face peer out from behind a curtain and then disappear. A moment later, I hear the bolt slide and the door opens a crack. I step cautiously inside. After all, I’m either right and they’re nonviolent, or I’m wrong and I’m visiting 2 murderers without backup. Stupid, I realize belatedly.
They’re both standing in the entryway when I step in. Chloe steps forward.
“We were warned to stay here or die. Are you here to arrest us again? We’ve decided that we’d rather be arrested than dead.”
“No. I believe that you’re both innocent. I’m here to talk.”
I explain that I have just come from the scene of another murder. There was an eye witness and the killer was definitely a man. I tell them about the book page left behind. Chloe pales even more and disappears into a side room for a moment, returning with a paperback crime thriller with her own name on the cover.
“I know the scene you’re talking about.” She flips to it and hands me the book. The title is Madman, Giggles and Riddles. “This was my first book. It seems like a fanatic reader is acting out a deranged real life version of the story. You can keep the book, if you like, for reference.”
I agree with Chloe’s assessment. They tell me that there’s a little more to the story than what I know about. They both received multiple red envelopes from this psycho. The first messages were blackmail, but later the envelopes had instructions and threats. They exchange a look and then, apparently reaching an agreement, they show me the envelopes.
Taking the book with me, I leave the cabin. When I reach the police car, I see a red envelope. Unnerved, I tear it open and read the note inside.
You play your part well. But even the sheriff dies in the end.
Folding the letter, I tuck it into my glove compartment to submit as evidence later. Then I speed home to check on my family. Telling my wife almost nothing about the details of the case, I drive her to her sister’s house in Monterey and arrange for our son to spend a few nights at a friend’s house. I spend the night at the police station reading Chloe’s book. I want to be prepared for the madman, if that’s ever possible.
Then next morning I’m awakened by a telephone ringing somewhere close to my head. It’s the phone on my desk; I must have fallen asleep sitting at my desk last night. I pick up the receiver; news of yet another murder hits me like cold water and I’m instantly awake. This time a car mechanic was hung in his own garage. A single book page was pinned to the dead man’s leg.
Chloe
After Sheriff Kean leaves, I turn to Hannah wondering if she’s thinking the same thing I am. In the present context, the nuanced intellectual differences that precipitated our breakup seem absurd. We might die at any time. In the meantime, I feel like I’ve been grounded, locked in my room with the most alluring woman I’ve ever known. What should we do to pass the time? Hannah raises an eyebrow. I smile slyly and start to walk towards her at the same time she starts walking towards me. Meeting in the middle, I take her in my arms and kiss her deeply. It feels magnetic, as it always did, with her. Only now, there’s the element of radical appreciation that comes in situations of danger and extreme uncertainty. It’s not enough to kiss her, I need to take her in completely. And I do.
Last night whetted my appetite. Hannah quickly shows me that she feels the same way. She wraps her arms around my neck and kisses me passionately. Breaking our embrace, she grabs two fistfuls of my shirt and hauls me over to the bed. I lay down on my back, quiescent and expectant.
“Just let me touch you,” she murmurs, passing her hands over my body. Pulling my shirt off over my head, she kisses every inch of skin that she can reach. I lift myself off the bed so that she can reach my bra clasp and she frees me with a moment’s concentration. Laying myself down on the pillows, I’m content to be admired. Androgynous women are beautiful women; Hannah always made sure I knew that.
I shiver in a sudden draft and Hannah pulls the blanket over us. Removing the rest of my clothes, as well as her own, we cling together under the blanket with the illusion of safety. Feeling her naked body fully flush with mine must be the most delicious sensation there is. We kiss and stroke, languid in our cocoon.
“I will always love you,” I tell her honestly.
“Yes, I know. And I will always love you. I was foolish, thinking that my head was smarter than my heart. I’m truly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you.”
She holds my eyes and I know how hard it is for her to admit that she was wrong. In response, I pull her face down to mine and kiss her. She returns my kiss. Then she untangles herself from me and indicates with an eloquent wave of her hand that she would like me to turn over. I lie naked on my stomach while Hannah does her best to make amends. Her warm breath on my bare skin is enough to entice me to forgive her almost immediately, but she takes the task more seriously. She leaves a damp trail of saliva from my neck to my toes before finally kneeling between my legs. Grasping my hips in her hands, she raises my buttocks into the air slightly and dips her face to insert her tongue into my damp folds. Being licked from this angle feels incredible and the subtle taboo of being eaten from the backside adds to the pleasure. I widen my knees to allow her access as she plunders me with her clever tongue. Arching my back, I push back into her waiting mouth while my breasts are pressed down against the mattress.
“More,” I plead shamelessly, “I need more.”
Sitting on her heels behind me, she slips her left hand inside me. I catch my breath, then begin to move against her. She then encircles me with her right arm to gain access to me from the front as well. The feeling of being trapped between her competent hands drives me wild and I rock backwards and forwards ecstatically. Sensing my readiness, she begins to pump her left hand harder, until I can hear the smack of impact with every thrust. The sound spurs us on and our frenzy increases as she slides the remaining fingers of her left hand deep inside me. I feel like my heart might explode and all I know to do is ride the wave of desperation and joy.
When the wave subsides, I turn to recline on my side and she lies down beside me. Taking her hand, still slick from my juices, I bring it to my mouth. Then, holding her gaze, I clean each finger one by one, inserting the tip and sucking gently before taking the length down my throat. Why 2 lesbians would be turned on by the simulation of fellatio, I couldn’t say. Maybe it has something to do with usurping the language of male sexual power. Whatever. All I know is that Hannah took care of me and now I want to clean her fingers with my grateful tongue. And I know that she likes it; every time I slide a finger down my throat she’s imagining me sucking on something else. I can see it in her eyes and hear it in her breathing.
Once I’ve finished my ministrations, she leans towards me and kisses me, tasting herself on my tongue. As we kiss, she places her hand against the back of my neck. Breaking the kiss, she guides my head down towards her waist. I stretch out on
my belly and make myself comfortable, with my mouth positioned between her legs. I intend to be here for a long time. She lays back, completely relaxed. The urgency has been slackened somewhat and we both recognize that it’s time to savor our carnality. We’ve got all night.
Afterwards, we lie entangled in bed, her head on my shoulder, her long dark hair tickling my bare throat. My arm is around her, my hand resting on her chest. Her hand holds mine over her heart. I’m almost happy. Even with all of the horror and danger of our present situation, I can’t help feeling buoyant. Except for one thing. I haven’t been as honest with Hannah as I could have been.
I’ve never told anybody my secret. I’ve kept it hidden for so long that the story I told other people became the story I told myself until I stopped remembering that I even had a secret. If I had admitted to myself that I was keeping something from Hannah while we were together, then I would have felt guilty. I didn’t feel guilty then, but I do now that my secret has resurfaced. Yesterday, I showed her the blackmail message but did not explain further and she did not press. I know that I need to tell her.
Taking a deep breath, I begin. I tell her the truth of how my career as a writer began. When I was in college, struggling with my grades, I had a problem with writer’s block. A lot of people do. But I was close to getting kicked out. I was desperate. One day, I saw a half-written manuscript lying on my housemate’s desk…and I took it. That manuscript formed the basis of my first book. I stole someone else’s work. Hannah is, rightfully, appalled by my actions.
“You didn’t! Somebody labored over that and you just took it? How would you feel if someone scratched out your name on one of your books and wrote their own instead?...”
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