Midnight Caller

The day has officially finished when I eventually get home. On the journey back my head clears only slightly. Still the fire inside me burns. I feel no less desperate than before and confused as to what I need to sate the flames. The mental images sent excitement sweeping through me despite them not being clear enough to isolate and focus upon. I had felt powerful and wonderfully nasty but not necessarily in control. Something was missing despite the huge intensity. I wanted to be worshipped like never before but the shrink-wrapped form couldn’t speak or move and showed me no adoration except in the hardness of his cock - and all I could do was lose myself and sit upon it.

Oddly, there are more lights on in my house than there should have been and I pull up alongside an unfamiliar dark-coloured car. It is a BMW but a classic; an example from the early seventies when the marque was rarer and coveted in a world of Cortinas. On the back it says 3.0 CSi. Crime Scene Investigation? It is gorgeous even in this partial light: black or dark blue and dripping with chrome; sporty but sleek and borrowing more from graceful Italian design than the bullishly macho models of today. Who the hell do I know with enough style to own such a car? Esmerelda comes hurrying out of the front door as I walk up the drive, flapping her arms and looking almost panicked, telling me that she was sorry but he wanted to stay, that it was important he saw me. My senses are too addled for this so I just allow myself to be led inside.

‘He has put himself in here, Madam,’ says Esmerelda apologetically. And so he has. He sits in the same chair he sat in on the day I killed my husband, looking every bit as sharp. The sight of him brings sudden clarity and a cold burst within. There was surprise in the mix there, alarm too, maybe even some gladness. He has taken it upon himself to turn on the Bang & Olufsen and select some cool jazz. Perhaps the impression he had in mind was like a chance meeting in some late-night club, with him stock still at his table and backlit by spots from the stage as the sax man played, barely visible through the plume of cigarette smoke being languidly expelled. But he won’t be a smoker, this clinical Inspector Stark, because it is seen as a dirty, smelly habit these days, and is proven to dull the senses. That would never do for him. I steel myself for another battle of wits and summon my game face. He has caught me when my guard is down but I know I can regain the advantage.

‘Good evening, Inspector Stork,’ I say, a mix of condescension and breezy impatience practised by all suspects when the supposedly affable detective comes a-calling unexpectedly. The name thing scores me the first point. I come before him so that he can see me, and see me he does, his hard demeanour wavering just visibly, the eyes widening ever so slightly at my fetish costume, which he takes in all the way down to my heeled boots. I notice the muscles in his jaw twitch. I bet something inside his underwear twitched too. Things have already shifted in my favour.

He doesn’t rise as a gentleman would. It’s mere pretence at being too superior for such instincts, and I know that such things are done to get my goat and send my mind off on tangents away from what I should be concentrating on - all the better for catching me out. However, he needs to remember who he is and who he is dealing with. Arch and suave he might be but he is still a policeman and thus a server of the public. I’m not sure I want a servant - not one who thinks himself better than me anyway. I’m not a snob but I am rich and have been for a long time. Plus policemen are snoopers by nature, and that’s not a nice nature. They delight in using the law to sate their kink for prying into secrets, for sticking their nose into your business, searching cracks and crannies for the type of horrible things decent people want to keep away from. They, by choice, delve into the seediest of seedy worlds and then pretend they are doing you a favour, as if they aren’t getting off on every nasty second of it. Detectives are, by definition, perverts. And if I wanted a pervert servant lecherously poring over my tits and high heels, I’ve already got handyman Bertrand, thank you very much.

‘The name is Stark, actually, Mrs Van Peer.’

‘It’s late, I know that. Who sent you out at this time?’

His eyes try to be on mine, to give me his steely glare, but they cannot stop dropping down to my costume and heels. His chin carries a shadow of stubble at this late hour but otherwise he looks as crisp as a man who has only recently dressed. I catch the scent of fresh cologne too, a superior variety, perhaps only recently applied - no doubt for my benefit. He looks more handsome than that first time. His is not a welcoming face as such, but a part of me inside is nonetheless glad to see it.

‘I’m a D.I., Mrs Van Peer. I don’t tend to get sent by anyone. I do things of my own volition. As it happens I have a duty to follow up on those people I come into contact with during tragic circumstances, like your good self. This is me following up.’

Bullshit. No one comes at this time unless someone has died, and that bit has already been taken care of. What the hell does he really want with me?

‘And you chose this late hour to do it?’

‘I was in the area. Plus it wasn’t quite this late when I arrived. You were out.’

He gives me another once over with his eyes, as if my sexy outfit demands some explanation.

‘Does everything you say sound like an accusation?’ I enquire, coolly. ‘I have been to a party if you must know. There is a whole houseful of people who could verify this for you if you wish to check.’

He gives a little sniff but his expression doesn’t change. He’s not going to try and pretend it wasn’t his intention to pry. His eyes tarry on my naughty footwear.

‘It must have been some party,’ he says, drily.

‘Fancy dress. Tarts and vicars,’ I lie, since my pirate clobber is no longer on me but in the boot of my car. ‘I decided to go as a vicar. I’m going to have a nightcap. Would you care to join me?’

There is a flash of amusement in his eyes at my vicar quip and try as he might he is struggling to keep up the ice-cold front. I move to the table where the good stuff sits in cut glass decanters on a silver tray - this might be called the “drawing room” but in truth there isn’t much drawing ever getting done in here; it’s simply a place to sip fine spirits whilst relaxing to music. Getting there necessitates turning and walking directly away from him. I intentionally go slow to give him a longer view of my behind in this tight skirt. It’s hard not to sashay in these heels. I pour two large cognacs, easily big enough to put him over the drink/drive limit but he doesn’t speak up. As I hand him his glass there is contact. It is only light brushing of his fingertip against mine, but the effect inside is far greater. Frisson is the word, I think. Our eyes meet and hold for just a moment before I turn away and sit on the sofa with as much grace as this skirt will allow.

I take a sip and deliberately look towards his crotch. Two can play at that game. I wonder if he is stirring in there. How big will he be? Big for sure, judging by his unflappable self assurance, but could he match the one I have had inside me tonight, that has left my pussy aching? Why does size suddenly matter when it never did before - is it one final nail in my no-good husband’s coffin, a way to send him off with the knowledge that he wasn’t God’s perfect gift to me as he thought? And why do these carnal feelings keep surfacing in the presence of this detective, in the face of his coldness and the danger he represents? He tries his drink and his expression displays a silent appreciation. I only serve the best stuff to guests, even ones who choose pervy jobs.

‘I trust you were happy that the coroner did not wish to hold on to your husband’s body to do a further post mortem?’ he asks. ‘You are satisfied with the outcome?’

‘Inspector, I am not satisfied that I have been left husbandless, no, but I am satisfied that further stress was avoided by the quick confirmation that the large dead goose found alongside him was indeed the obvious cause of his demise.’

‘Quite,’ he says, knowingly. ‘And the sombre formalities thereafter have been sorted? I trust the will was properly executed and you haven’t been left in financial difficulty? How are you in yourself now that family members have been and gone and left you on your own at this time? It is encouraging to see that you already feel strong enough to go to parties.’

There is a hot burst of animosity inside and I flash him a warning glare. I’m not sure who the fuck he thinks he is to presume how long my grief should last.

‘My husband died, Inspector,’ I remind him. ‘I did not.’

He retains that same knowing look, not even remotely apologetic. His eyes just drop back to my cleavage, then off once more down my legs to my boots. He wants me to know he sees right through me. Inside that ever calculating brain of his he’s got me down as a remorseless, dirty bitch. Can he tell I’ve had hot cock inside me tonight? Can he smell it? Does he want his turn now, regardless? The realisation hits me in that moment that I actually want to fuck him. It’s a big surprise considering I know what a kinky sneak he must be by nature. I don’t know if it’s his looks or demeanour or the danger of him; maybe all and more. More surprising still, my head is unsure as to whether I want to be taken or be the one doing the taking. One flashing mental image sees me atop him, grinding and riding him with teasing control, breasts spilled out, his slim tie removed from under his collar and put directly around his neck, held in my clenched fist and twisted to cut off the supply of oxygen. The next image has me on my knees, face flushed and pressed to the carpet, bare backside stuck up in the air - and him behind me, still suited and with compassionless twitching jaw, a whole eight inches of him just like Samson claims to own, but slender and smooth and beautiful, and every single inch of it being forced deep and without first seeking consent, right up into my tight virgin arse.

‘Indeed, Mrs Van Peer. Life is for living and as you and I well know none of us have any say in when it might be ended for us. Even adversity can bring fresh insights and new hope. And, in your case, perhaps in death your husband revealed secrets that showed he wasn’t entirely deserving of your wholehearted sorrow.’

‘Well, I’m not exactly dancing on his grave if that’s what you mean, Inspector. But then again I don’t particularly feel in the mood to be putting flowers on it either.’

He nods sagely, swirling his cognac in the glass and taking another deep sniff. The eyes stay on mine for once, rather than flitting around the room in search of evidence or taking in my body in search of unashamed thrills.

‘So you have reached a level of acceptance whereby you think you are strong enough to move on?’

‘I don’t feel emotionally incapable of getting on with my life, no.’

‘That is good to hear. And so there is nothing you can think of that I can do for you, Mrs Van Peer?’

It is a pointed question, bringing a flashing, jolting image to my mind of tangled bare flesh: ours. The way his eyes are on mine I know it was entirely intentional. I like his eyes. I cannot deny this. There is a bit more warmth to them now, enough to have me flicker the slightest smile in return. I like them when they are steely too, when they bore into the truth of everything. He sips and still looks straight at me, like he is mulling over something else to say. I think he is going to ask me outright if I slayed my husband. He thinks my smile will grow broader to silently confirm his suspicions.

It is his only hope. I have proved too cunning an adversary. I think he has swept for evidence and found none. It is a rare defeat, one that stops him running roughshod over me like he does all his other suspects. He has taken in my body and he yearns for it. He wants to use the threat of being privy to my guilty secret to force me to give myself to him. Or have me force myself upon him, so that I fuck him into submission to stop him from ever airing what he knows to anyone. Whatever, he can’t bear the thought of not having me. It is usually so easy for him, what with the threat of the law at his back. He takes a gulp, nearly finishing his expensive drink in one. I think he has pretensions to stay all night. That is why he came here. How pretentious! If he can’t defeat me he will deign to succumb to me. And he thinks I will have him. One way or another he wants his delicious prick filling my hot, wet hole. He sits forward in his seat, ready for his next move. He is either going to ask to stay or beg to be allowed, right now.

‘It is late, Mrs Van Peer, and I ought to leave you in peace. I am glad that you are as well as can be expected under the tragic circumstances.’

Well, that’s hardly part of the script, the silly fucker! What do I say to make him get back on it without sounding like he has any hold over me?

‘It was good of you to think of me, Inspector.’

‘It is easy to think of you, Mrs Van Peer,’ he says, eyes on mine for another lingering moment before his head turns and he puts down his empty glass. He has given me the chance to say something back, something to encourage more, but again I don’t know what to say that doesn’t lay me wide open. His innate feelings of superiority just won’t die. I don’t know how I would regain the initiative having put myself on offer.

‘I imagine you are satisfied I am getting on just fine?’

‘Indeed, yes. I don’t think I will need to make any more follow-up visits.’ He stalls, waiting for me to say something, but still a part of me doesn’t want to capitulate on his terms. ‘Unless you can think of any other reason why you might need the services of a detective?’

I can’t, other than that the hacked up body of handyman Bertrand might need to be removed by the murder squad if he keeps on using my kitchen surfaces to strip down the lawn mower engine.

‘None that I can...’

‘Nothing unusual happened recently? I mean, his death has been deemed an accident, but your husband was a powerful man and might have had enemies still seeking revenge...’

What is he getting at? Is he simply trying to tell me that, to his mind, this case isn’t as clear-cut as the goose had everyone else believe?

‘No, I...’

‘Any confrontations with people you don’t know? Any threats made?’

Is he trying to imply he thinks it was murder, and if it wasn’t a business enemy who killed my husband it must have been someone closer to him? I don’t know what he is after, apart from getting us into bed together, and yet he is heading out towards the door, as if I need to produce the magic words to stop him from going. Then suddenly the anonymous texts spring to mind.

‘I have had indecent messages left on my phone,’ I say. His interest piques and he turns back to face me.

‘What, only since the death of your husband? How many?’

‘Yes - four including the one tonight. One each week for the last month.’

‘Have you any idea who might be sending them?’

‘No,’ I say, although a leering Samson enters my head. ‘A disgusting pervert, I should think.’

‘Mrs Van Peer, could you give me some idea of the content of these messages?’

‘Certainly not! They are unspeakably explicit.’

What kind of vulgar fishwife does he think I am, the spunk-bubbling cock-gobbler?

‘I mean - are they specific to you or do you think they could be being sent at random?’

Well, the messenger knows I’ve got a luscious arse for starters so he’s got that bit right.

‘They are specific to me, Inspector.’

‘Have you still got the message you received tonight, and if so may I see it?’

I frown. He can’t wait to delve into more filth. It is not something I wish to share with anyone, quite frankly. It seems to make me somehow culpable. His arm is outstretched, though, hand out, waiting for my phone. I go to my handbag and get it, finding the text so that he doesn’t get the chance to scroll through my lists. He looks at the message, his expression remaining almost unchanged except for a little curl of the lip to suggest suppressed anger. He makes a note of the number it was sent from.

‘It takes someone truly twisted to do something like this to you at this time, Mrs Van Peer. It may prove difficult to trace but we know the sender has your number, and either a grudge or less savoury intentions, so that gives me something to work on. Please leave this with me, Mrs Van Peer, and have no doubt - I always get my man. Or woman, obviously.’

What was that last bit for? It wasn’t for the sake of political correctness.

‘Inspector, the content of the texts, I assure you, does not suggest it is a woman sending them.’

‘Quite. Nonetheless...’

On that he goes and I am left there, feeling victorious and empty and precarious and dirty all at once, perched on the drawing room settee, my puss still giving out more heat than an oven. The car door closes outside my window, out there in the black. I hear the engine gun and see the glare of twin small round headlights - similar to those I had in my rear view mirror earlier this very night. Then he is going, leaving me here to recall his mild innuendo and find substance to it. The noise of his car hasn’t even subsided and my legs have been flung apart to allow my fingers entry. It is scant compensation but it will have to do. The rudeness is already crowding my head and there is no time even to drag myself upstairs. The images are filthy, nasty, spattering. They are confused and blurred. Only the sense of them can be gleaned, and that is of fabulous torture and glorious hurt. The razor is there, open and glinting but I have no idea if it is my hand holding it or someone else’s; that of Detective Inspector Stark. My fingers go deep and fast. The squelch is incomparably vulgar-sounding. My grunts and groans are feral and loud, like I want him to hear them and come back to find me like this. I can’t help myself. Who the fuck is he to put me in this state and then leave me?

‘Madam, are you hurt? Madam?’ says a worried Esmerelda, rushing in at the noises I’m making and getting the shock of her life when she sees me bucking and snarling and with fingers jammed and wriggling inside my sopping wet cunt. ‘Oh, Madam!’

I stop, my breath hard, the vision clearing just a little, the fingers still in me.

‘Fuck off, Esmerelda,’ I say, with teeth bared, ‘before I decide you need chopping apart.’

Oh, and in case you are wondering, I didn’t have to be Daddy’s Horrible Specimen for too long, you’ll be pleased to hear. When I was nine he left us for a woman he had been having an affair with almost from the time he was first married. I kept telling my mother to stop him from going but she didn’t. She simply stayed on her knees outside our front door as he spat insults and loaded his bags into the car. I stood looking down at her as this kind of high-pitched wailing shriek came from her crumpled red face, the snot pouring out of her nose. She was usually so pretty. I have never heard or seen anything as wretched or distressing before or since. The rise of sympathy for her, of love and the need to protect her, mushroomed inside me unstoppably, feeling like a white glare that would explode my head. It almost had me passing out. Then it simply stopped, just like that, and my vision cleared and she was still there, wailing almost inaudibly, doing nothing, pathetic. I didn’t even hug her.

‘Can’t I come with you?’ I asked my father, since I wasn’t sure who was going to be fixing my tea that night if my mum couldn’t get off her knees.

‘Why the fuck would I want you with me?’ he raged. ‘Where I am going there is a girl already there who is a much better daughter than you. She does what I ask her and she doesn’t have hour-long screaming tantrums and she doesn’t get me into all sorts of shit with the neighbours because she has dismembered her best friend’s Barbie doll with a pair of garden shears!’

So, my mother lost herself to drink after that and I went to my aunt’s first and then to boarding school. I got expelled twice and only did well at exams because I needed to prove I was amongst the cleverest without particularly trying. I still only got the job I did because I’d my mother’s looks and a low-cut top and decided to sell my soul to the devil and allow the married boss to spunk on my cleavage during the interview, in exchange for a permanent position. Lucky he is dead now or I’d have to do for him too. Fortunately, for all this undeserved adversity, you’ll be pleased to know that I turned out just fine.