Watching the Detective Portia Da Costa

Uh oh, here we go! How many times have I heard this theme tune tonight? How many times have I pressed my hand to my heart as if I could stop it pounding fifteen to the dozen? I always get a little tingle when I hear this heavy plinkety-plunking intro. A fluttery tingle in my mid-section and a big fat horny twinge way down low, because I know I’m going to see him any second!

Or at least I’ll see him if we don’t get struck by lightning in the meantime. There’s a classic Hammer Horror thunderstorm raging outside and the power’s been fluctuating and even gone out momentarily once or twice. It’s not all that long since we moved into this old house that my uncle Edgar left me and, frankly, it’s a bit of a death-trap. The electric wiring is rudimentary in places – and the plumbing and the heating aren’t much better either.

We’re warm and cosy at the moment, though, in spite of the crashing thunder, the pouring rain and temperatures outside that feel more like midwinter than 23 June. Our big old bed is like the warren of some animal tonight, a sweaty sexy burrow of tangled sheets and a moth-eaten duvet, all garnished with a liberal smattering of crumbs and crisp bits from our usual television snacking.

Normally, at midnight, I’d be fast asleep, snuggled up against my honey, breathing in his familiar raunchy man-smell and probably smiling in my slumbers.

But tonight isn’t a normal night. It’s the Midsummer’s Eve twelve-hour marathon of my all-time favourite cop show, and my boyfriend Sam and I have decided to watch the whole thing here in bed.

Well, I’m watching.

Sam’s not the rabid fan of the show that I am, but he’s an easy-going soul – bless his heart – so he indulges me in my televisual obsession. He’s been passing most of his time catching up on his newspaper reading, and poring over back issues of his beloved car magazines while I worship at the shrine of The Detective.

Oh, The Detective! He’s a bit like the chocolate biscuits I’ve been scoffing far too many of – irresistibly delicious, but detrimental in unrestrained excess. I ought to feel guilty but I couldn’t give a monkey’s!

It’s terrible of me really.

Here I lie, ogling my god while my real sweet long-suffering bloke lies ignored beside me, making his own amusement. Not many other men would stand for such offhand treatment so amiably, so, in a spirit of fairness, and because I’m very turned on, I start feeling Sam up during the adverts. There’s a less than brilliant episode on just now, so I decide that I can spare some of my attention in order to rub my pelvis provocatively against the man who’s actually in my bed. He deserves a treat for putting up with my foibles, and pretty soon he takes notice. I’ve surreptitiously slipped off my panties and kicked them away down amongst the mangled covers. And when The Detective makes his big entrance, scoping out the scene of the crime, I notice that Sam starts touching me and naughtily flicking my clit. I’ve got a sneaking feeling this is something of a sly competitive tactic on his part, to see if he can completely wrest my attention from the screen, but who cares what it is when it feels so wicked and so good. Pretty soon, I’m wriggling and pulling at him, Detective or no Detective, and Sam complies obligingly by climbing on top, slotting himself into me and starting to pump.

Mmm . . . that feels so good . . . so familiar, yet also new . . . because I’m still following the course of the investigation . . . oh, bad me!

From time to time, I grapple with my concentration, and attempt to focus on Sam, who I think the world of, and who is undeniably very cute and lovable. But, as my cunt ripples, he drifts inevitably from my consciousness. All of a sudden it’s The Mighty Detective between my legs, shagging me senseless.

My Detective, oh my Detective, how can I describe thee? You’re so tall and broad and handsome, with your angelic face, your naughty mouth and your bitter-chocolate eyes full of mischief and wisdom. It might actually be Sam putting his back into it between my legs, but it’s your passionate lips that I’m kissing and your huge delicious dick that’s surging inside me. And your name I moan deliriously as I come.

Oh my God, what a selfish bitch I am! The instant I’ve stopped fluttering and glowing and I’m back in my body again, a great weight of lip-gnawing guilt descends upon me. It’s one thing to have a crush on a television character and fantasise about him during sex – but it’s well out of order to let your partner know you’re actually doing it at the time!

How could I do that? Isn’t it bad enough that I’m subjecting Sam to twelve hours of the big guy on the television?

But my Sam is a saint and, now that’s he’s huffed and puffed and shot his load, he’s feeling more than mellow. He just chuckles and gives me a sloppy affectionate kiss.

‘I knew you were pretending I was him,’ he growls, mock fierce, and beneath the covers he slaps me playfully on the thigh ‘But don’t worry, it was me you were fucking, and not Sherlock, so I’m still the winner.’ Rolling over, he squeezes my bottom, and gives that a little play tap too. Well, slightly more than a tap . . . It’s a second slap that stings in a mild but interesting way. ‘And you can always make it up to me by giving me a nice blow job when the next lot of news comes on!’

‘Um . . . OK.’ I feel strangely shaken by those slaps, especially because all of a sudden they make me want to fuck again. We’ve never actually played spanking games but it’s something I’ve always thought of suggesting.

A few pretty half-baked scenarios flit through my mind during the next adverts, but, after a few minutes of car insurance, teeth whiteners and Andie MacDowell’s hair, it’s time to commune with my glorious hero again. There’s one of my very favourite episodes coming up next but a part of me still can’t help thinking about those slaps. Sam was only fooling about, but to me they suddenly seem quite deadly serious. God knows, I deserve to be punished after my faux pas over The Great Detective’s name!

As the channel ident flashes, I steal a split-second glance at Sam, but he’s fast asleep already, mouth open, mad black curly hair sticking up at all angles and a tea stain down the front of his muscle vest. What a contrast to the sartorial GQ treat that lies ahead of me.

The story preamble begins. Some nasty perp up to no good as usual, but I’m not yet paying full attention due to The Detective not appearing until after the credits. Then the credits begin . . . thunder rolls . . . and the room goes black!

‘Fucking, fuckety fuck!’ I shout, regardless of Sam’s slumbers, and, like an idiot, I start stabbing buttons on the remote still in my hand. As if that’ll restore the electricity.

And yet, against the odds, it does do something. Thunder cracks again and the lights flicker faintly but only for a second. They go out again, but, astonishingly, the television springs back to life. The screen looks slightly blue tinted, but not too badly. It’s still perfectly watchable.

And the credits of my beloved cop show are still rolling.

At least it seems to be my cop show. My heart leaps again with bubbling excitement. It must be a special episode or something – maybe recorded just for this marathon – because the sequence of images isn’t one I’ve ever seen before. The frames are sharp, ultra clear, almost 3D, and, as they fade from one to the other, each one of the hairs on the back of my neck seem to prickle and rise individually. And, even though it’s the same familiar music, and the same graphic styling, there’s only the one character featured in the montage.

It’s just The Detective with no sign whatsoever of the rest of the team.

And at the end, he seems to walk towards the camera, my guy, tall and intent, dressed in an immaculate thousand-dollar suit of bluish grey. His long stride eats up the ground and, as he approaches, he just keeps on coming . . . and coming . . . and coming . . .

‘Vicky Sheridan?’ he enquires imperiously when he reaches me, flipping out his handcuffs from the clip at his belt.

But, before I can answer, he grabs me by the shoulder, hauls me from the bed and snaps the cuffs on me while I’m still wondering what’s happening and trying to catch my breath.

What?

‘You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.’ He grips my shoulder again, and propels me forwards, parroting out the Miranda as if I’m the lowest of low-life scuzz-buckets he’s just apprehended. ‘You have the right to speak to an attorney, and to have an attorney present during any questioning. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you at government expense. Do you understand the rights I have just read to you? With these rights in mind, do you wish to speak to me?’

By now, he’s manhandling me through a familiar door into a familiar room, and I’m so gob-smacked I don’t have a breath of resistance in me.

It’s the interrogation room. We’re in a familiar chilly grey box with the mirror and the metal table and chairs that I’ve seen in scores of episodes. And it’s just as soulless and intimidating in real life as it is on the television.

Real life? What the hell am I talking about ‘real life’ for? My heart’s bouncing around as if it’s on a bungee and my skin is a pointillist fresco of painful goose-bumps. This isn’t real. How can I be here? This place is just a film set really.

It’s all got to be a dream but, despite that, I can touch and I can feel.

Especially The Detective.

He still has me by the arm and his fingers are like points of fire against my bare arm while I just stand like a lemon in the middle of this cold claustrophobic room, letting him loom over me like a dark imposing nemesis. All these months – years even – of adoring him, and now I’m too afraid to even lift my eyes and look up into his face. I just stare in awe at the shiny polished toes of his great size-thirteen shoes.

I shiver violently, but it’s not just from the refrigerator cold in this oh-so-impossible room.

‘Please, take a seat, Vicky,’ he says, sort of all polite business and sharp sardonic mockery at the same time. With feigned courtesy he pulls out a chair and pushes me into it.

Is he playing bad cop? Or good cop? Or a bit of both?

As The Detective releases my arm, I shuffle into place. The floor is some sort of shiny institutional vinyl stuff, and my bare feet adhere to it, but far worse is the cold unforgiving metal of the chair itself. I’m reminded with a shock and a gasp that I dispensed with my knickers to fuck Sam. My post-sex stickiness almost audibly squelches against the slick surface of the seat as I inch towards the edge, trying to accommodate my still-cuffed hands behind me.

Despite the burning urge to look, I simply can’t bring myself to lift my face, but I hear The Detective pull up a chair of his own and settle his large magnificent body into it.

‘So, Vicky, do you know why I’ve brought you here?’

Oh that voice! It’s like the vocal equivalent of velvet, so seductive, so smooth and so challenging. It’s the same voice from the show, but somehow it’s never sounded quite like this before. Never so intimate, never so sexy, despite my crush on him.

My eyes are still glued to anything but him, and my attention flits from the stark smudged surface of the functional table to the leather binder stuffed with documents that he has open before him. As I watch, he picks up a pen in his left hand and makes a small notation on a yellow legal pad. I’ve no idea what he’s just written, but I sense it’s not a plaudit for my good behaviour. All I can do is ogle those fingers, imagining, imagining . . .

‘Nothing to say, Vicky?’

I’m just about to shake my head, when a huge mitt of a hand shoots out across the table and lifts my chin, forcing me to look at him.

Oh, God! Oh, God! Am I drowning? I feel as if I’m spiralling down a time tunnel, yet, at the same time, I catalogue each detail of the heartbreak-handsome face before me.

He’s smiling. It’s a warm wide white smile, but it’s tricky. His broad but subtle face is full of secret teasing. We’re playing games, I realise, and that makes me relax. My belly warms as his pink tongue suddenly peeks out and sweeps his sexy lower lip.

‘Well, no . . . I don’t really know what to say . . . I don’t know why I’m here and I’ve no idea how I got here either.’

The Detective cocks his head on one side and regards me archly. I notice that, in the blue-toned room, his deep-brown eyes look redder than usual and, as I wait for him to say something, they light from within and seem to dance with ruddy sparks.

‘We don’t bring people here without a reason, Vicky,’ he purrs, his fingertip still lifting up my chin. It’s just a minuscule contact but it’s as solid and secure as the handcuffs. ‘This is an interrogation room, so that makes you a suspect. Are you seriously expecting me to believe that you’re totally innocent of any misdemeanour?’

Guilt floods me. Heat floods me. Arousal floods me. Literally. My bare sex oozes anew against the cold cheap chair.

I’ve perpetrated a heinous crime. One that’s deeply shameful and reprehensible. At least it feels like it. I thought about this man, and imagined him in me, while fucking my Sam. That’s just got to be on some statute book somewhere, hasn’t it?

The Detective nods, and his hand slides lightly up and down the side of my face, before stilling again. He cradles my jaw, holding it delicately with just the tips of his very large fingers. ‘That’s better,’ he observes, his thick lashes drifting down. They give him a hooded look that’s deceptively sleepy eyed and sultry. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere . . . Now we can negotiate a just retribution.’

It’s like being hypnotised. In fact, it’s possible that I am being hypnotised. Those beautiful eyes are like two hot coals and I can’t avoid them.

‘I . . . um . . . er . . . shouldn’t you be sending for the DA or something?’ I stammer, grasping for shreds of the reality of the show I love so much. I don’t know what’s happening here, but the show is where it started.

The Detective laughs, and it echoes around the grey box we’re in like strange deep music. He moves in closer, rising out of his seat and leaning right over the table to get in my face, and it’s as if I’m paralysed yet at the same time also in motion. Violent motion on the deepest level, as every cell in my body furiously vibrates with wild desire.

I’m making a pool of lubrication on the metal of my chair, and my nipples are like stones of lust beneath the thin cotton T-shirt.

‘Oh, I don’t think there’s any need to involve the District Attorney’s Department at this stage, is there?’ He does the head-tilt thing again, ever so slightly, his eyes still locked on me, swivelling in their sockets as his face moves. ‘Better to cut a deal between the two of us for now, don’t you think?’

‘B– but surely it’s not legal or regulation or whatever . . . And where’s your partner? And the captain? You can’t just – just –’

‘Just what?’ he demands, releasing me, before spinning away like a dancer. He ends up leaning with his back to the great big mirror that covers almost half of the opposite wall. I know from the show that this is a two-way, allowing observation from another room beyond.

But who’s watching us? And, if it’s the captain or the DA, why hasn’t anyone rushed into the room to put a stop to this completely non-regulation interview? I peer at the mirror. I suppose The Detective, with his preternatural powers, could tell me who’s behind it, even if he didn’t already know. But, to me, the mirror is impenetrable, reflecting only his magnificent back, his dark crisply cut hair and me, trembling behind the table in my T-shirt.

And then he does something. Something that seems to confirm that this is indeed a dream.

Still staring at me, he makes a strange elegant magician’s pass with his fingers against the glass . . . and then it ripples and becomes partially transparent like a sheet of water.

The scene that it reveals makes me gasp.

Lit by the flickering illumination of what must be our own television, I’m staring into a familiar room. It’s my own bedroom. The one I share with Sam. And there he is too, my tolerant easy-going boyfriend. He’s propped up against the pillows, staring avidly back towards the screen. The light is poor, but I can see the flush high on his cheeks and the hot hunger in his hugely dilated eyes. Not only that, he’s kicked back the mountain of covers and exposed the fact that he’s touching himself, stroking his penis where it protrudes like a fat red bar beneath the hem of his grungy vest.

He licks his lips as if he’s keen to see more of what he’s watching.

‘So, shall we continue?’ The Detective pushes himself away from the mirror and returns to the table.

Prowling round to my side, he sits on the table, just next to me, unashamedly staring down the loose neckline of my T-shirt. With his left hand, he reaches casually to one side and touches a fingertip to my nipple – and I leap two inches into the air as if he’s goosed it with an electrode. He laughs softly and shakes his great head, then takes a hold of the little bump of stiffened flesh.

‘You’re quite something, Vicky, aren’t you? A real piece of work . . .’ He tightens his grip and twists a little, making me gulp and moan and groan like a total slut. ‘Mostly when people come into this room, they’re nervous and afraid and on edge.’

He tweaks again, and my hips start moving of their own accord, rubbing my slithery sex against the chair. I find myself trying to spread my legs, and sit down harder to open myself. The Detective notes this immediately, and his moist pink tongue sweeps across his upper lip as if he relishes my helplessness.

‘But you, Vicky, you’re just horny, aren’t you?’ He grins, his teeth glinting and predatory. ‘You’re in the biggest trouble, but all you want – all you really want – is to get laid.’

Ah ha, Mr Clever Detective! You’ve slipped up . . . you’ve got it wrong . . . I don’t want to get laid, as such, I realise in a sudden blinding flash. I want something else, sort of similar, but different.

His sparkling demonic eyes widen as if he’s read my thoughts. Maybe he has. This is a dream, isn’t it? Anything can happen . . . and he’s me, isn’t he, really? He’s from my mind . . .

‘So that’s the way it is.’ He pulls at my nipple. Quite hard. I wrench against the cuffs as sensation streaks from my breast to my pussy, but I can’t for the life of me tell whether it’s really pain or just a twisted form of pleasure. ‘I knew I was right about you.’

Inclining sideways, he surprises me with a kiss. He presses his firm lips against mine, and then tickles them with his tongue as if asking for entrance. As I open my mouth, my glance flicks to the glass again, but the surface seems to swim, and I can’t see any image but the incriminating one of us.

Is Sam still watching? Was he ever watching? To my shame, sucking on The Detective’s warm mobile peppermint-scented tongue, I can’t seem to care or worry about Sam’s feelings for the moment.

And, for that alone, I know I must invite my fate.

I duel with The Detective’s tongue. I press my body against his hand. I part my thighs, press my cunt against the chair and rock and wriggle lewdly.

The Detective laughs joyfully into my mouth as he grips the back of my head with one hand and lets the other slide from my breast down to my belly. His mighty form seems to weigh down on me as he thrusts hard and ruthlessly with his tongue and slips two fingers down between my legs – and then in between my sex lips.

A cry bubbles up from my chest, but he suppresses with his mouth and his sheer force of will. Down at my core, he rubs ferociously, working my clit. My body jerks like a fish on a line, thrashing against his caress and his presence, making the flimsy metal chair clatter and shake. I can’t break free of him, but I can’t see why I’d want to. All my struggling and writhing is a pure reflex action, more incitement than any kind of escape attempt.

When I come, I feel as if I’m going to choke for a moment, but still he won’t free me. He subjects me to more and more tongue, and more and more fingering, without an instant of respite. My head starts to swim and I smell my sweat and my foxy juices – and his cologne, sublime and expensive.

‘Naughty, naughty,’ he whispers when he finally releases me. He takes out a large monogrammed handkerchief, wipes his fingers, then refolds the white square meticulously and pushes it back into his pocket. ‘You just failed your endurance test, and now you really need a lesson.’

Suddenly on his feet again, he drags me to mine, then kicks away the chair. I sway precariously, my head like cotton wool from all the onslaughts on my senses. He holds me by my shoulders, his grip firm and unyielding, and I almost imagine that my feet have left the floor.

‘Over you go,’ he instructs me, manipulating me in space as if I were a doll made of papier-mâché or some other super-light material.

Before I can protest, I’m face down across the grimy metal table, its hard edge pressing sharply against my crotch. The room’s chilly air wafts like a breeze across my labia.

It’s very uncomfortable, pressed face down across the table like this, with my hands fastened so I can’t adjust my position. My warm cheek is squished sideways against the unfriendly grey surface and my breasts ache where they’re flattened by own weight.

I’m vulnerable. Exposed. Hugely excited. Silky fluid slides down the inside of my thigh.

I imagine The Detective’s eagle eyes watching its progress. I wait for a sardonic comment but he remains tantalisingly silent. The only sound is a slight rustle from his clothing.

What the hell is he doing? I twist and strain to see him, unconsciously aware that I must not lift my head. Across the desk, I see him drop his jacket neatly over the back of his chair, and then there are faint noises like fine fabric being folded.

The bastard’s rolling up his sleeves, ready for action!

It’s a shock when I feel his hand slide beneath my T-shirt and touch my bottom.

‘I could have you now, couldn’t I?’ he whispers, leaning right over me, fingertips skittering and flickering over the nervous surface of my buttocks.

I purse my lips, determined to resist him for the sheer devilment of testing our limits. I want him. I think . . . But it’s different now. Lusting from afar isn’t dangerous . . . and this is.

His fingers slip into the groove of my bottom, sliding downwards, delicately disturbing my slippery folds. I bite my lip, trying not to whine like a horny bitch.

‘I could have you . . . but I don’t think I will.’

I wait for my own wail of disappointment but it doesn’t materialise. Touch is enough, touch and something more assertive.

‘I know what you need, Vicky. I know what you want . . . I know what’s best for a naughty girl like you.’

Slowly, with what feels suspiciously like reverence, he raises my grungy T-shirt, tucks it beneath my cuffed hands and exposes the trembling cheeks of my naked backside. He steps to my right side and places the points of his fingers on first one buttock, then the other. The whine gets away from me this time and I lift my hips to meet his touch.

‘Patience, little girl, patience,’ he says steadily, then begins to slowly pat my cheeks, first one, then the other, as before.

It’s so measured, so detailed, so leisurely.

The pats become taps. The taps become more forceful. The forceful taps gain momentum, becoming slaps.

And they hurt!

They hurt like hell! Like fire! Like burning, biting flames!

A little bonfire that seeps and flows into my pussy.

I’m making all sorts of noise now. Grunts, whines, groans and whimpers . . . the sound of my own voice turns me on even more. There’s something thrilling about being reduced to a giant hormone. A drooling, needing creature of submissive lust . . .

The Detective laughs with delight.

‘Now you know,’ he announces exultantly. ‘Now you know what you really want and really need.’ His hand stills on my right bottom cheek, squeezing lightly and making it hard for me to breathe. ‘And now we need to resolve the situation.’ His voice is brisk. He’s still pleased with himself. And he’s smiling as he turns me over, sits me on the edge of the desk and induces another groan as my reddened bottom takes my weight.

But what he does next is a total surprise.

With a grace that belies his towering height and his muscular girth, he sinks to his knees, grabs me by the thighs . . . and gives me head.

I sway, I almost topple over, but I manage to rest myself awkwardly on my elbows and my shackled wrists.

The pleasure is exquisite. His tongue is nimble beyond imagining. I shout out loud, my bare thighs clamping round his head.

Within a few heartbeats, he laps me cleverly to my climax and, as I flail about, I feel myself begin to fall . . .

‘Wake up, love! You’re missing your favourite episode. It’s nearly finished.’

Someone’s gently shaking my arm and I lurch back into consciousness. It’s a bit like that horrible jolting ‘stepping into a lift shaft’ sensation that occasionally wakes you from a dream of suddenly falling. Flying bolt upright, I try and catch my breath.

The bedside lamp and the television are back on, and The Detective is just about to pull the old bait and switch on some crafty criminal who thinks he’s very clever, but is just a microbe compared to the intellect he’s up against.

He’s on the case, totally focused and playing out his role, just as normal.

He’s a million miles away from the demon sex fiend who just licked my cunt.

There’s a funny noise and I suddenly realise that it’s my teeth chattering.

A warm familiar arm comes around my shoulder and I turn to Sam, who’s looking rather worried with a slight side order of guiltiness.

‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ He gives me a squeeze. ‘I’m sorry about not waking you up sooner, but I was dozing myself and when I opened my eyes I realised this one is nearly over.’ He nods to the screen, where The Detective is leaning against the wall of the interrogation room, his arms folded and an arch slightly pitying expression on his handsome face. The miserable perp has just this moment realised that he’s been tricked.

‘Don’t worry, love . . . I’ve seen it before. I know what happens,’ I find myself saying.

Sam is so sweet. I never realised that he knew what my favourite episodes were, and it was so thoughtful of him to actually worry that I was missing one.

I make a decision, reach for the remote and snap off the telly.

‘What on earth are you doing?’ Sam demands, but he’s smiling. ‘You’ve been looking forwards to this for weeks. Aren’t you going to watch it all?’

‘Nah . . . I’ve seen enough for tonight.’ I wriggle out of his arms, touch his dear face and then push on his shoulders to encourage him to lie back on the bed. ‘I promised you a blow job, didn’t I?’ I tug down the covers and find a pleasing erection springing eagerly from his groin.

What on earth has he been dreaming about? It couldn’t be as vivid as mine, surely, but something’s got him up and at the ready.

‘Nice . . .’ I murmur, letting my fingers walk up his thigh until they reach the cradle of his groin. He lets out a gasp as I make a circle around his cockhead. ‘But what’s brought this on?’ I punctuate the question, by leaning forwards to give him a nice but naughty licking.

Sam puffs out his lips and starts to wriggle a little. He tosses his curly head on the pillow when I point my tongue and start to probe.

‘I had this dream . . . this weird dream . . .’ he pants. ‘It was about you and him . . .’

When I open my eyes and glance sideways at his face, he’s nodding towards the television.

A strange unease stirs in me, but it’s not fair to break off from my task now, so I continue.

‘You were in the interrogation room with him, and he had you handcuffed, and it all got a bit fruity.’

I pop up.

‘What happened?’

‘He was touching you . . . and he spanked you . . . and then he gave you head.’

The room starts to revolve a little, and I’m back there . . . cowering, ready and yearning, before my hero.

‘God, it was hot,’ goes on Sam, still moving uneasily against the pillows, his eyes closed, and licking his lips. ‘Really horny . . . we shall have to do that spanking thing one of these days, I think . . . Would you like that?’

‘Yeah, it’d be fun,’ I whisper, feeling wildly turned on again but, at the same time, slightly terrified.

‘Hey, don’t leave me high and dry, babe!’ Sam protests, reaching out towards me and pulling me back in the direction of his dick again.

I comply, and begin to suck him slowly and industriously in the lamplight, but the hairs on the back of my neck are prickling and crawling.

How can Sam have had the same dream as I did? How can he have seen what I dreamt he was seeing through the glass?

My mouth still full of my boyfriend, I can’t help glancing sideways towards the television, and I nearly do him a mischief when I see the screen all aglow again.

And there, bathed in the same blue-toned eldritch radiance as before, is The Detective. He’s sitting on the edge of his metal table, his suited arms crossed and a silky smirk on his broad handsome face.

What are you doing? You’re not real! You’re a dream! Sod off!

I close my eyes and apply myself to my delicious task, but, when I weaken a moment later, I sneak a sideways peek at the screen and find him still there and smirking . . .

And, as he reaches for his zip, his familiar eyes gleam red as coals.