(I)
Look, this is embarrassing as hell, so the least you can do is be polite and quit laughing, okay? Now I have to start all over. Let me know when the recorder is running.
sigh
My name is Gordon Henredon Fairchild. I’m 54 years of age, and I oversee the Antiquities department at the University museum. Two months ago, this woman came to the museum and asked me—practically begged me—to assess a family heirloom that her grandfather had brought from somewhere in South America. Now I don’t do that sort of thing—we hire professional appraisers to determine authenticity and financial value—but she was SO insistent that I said I would set aside some time to give her my professional opinion.
Stupid of me. I should have told her I didn’t have any time to look at things outside my specialty. She had the damned thing in her purse, and “thing” was the best word for it. It looked to me like a bit of clumsy Aztec stonework, all rough edges and angular features. Presumably, it was supposed to be some kind of frog, but my first impression was that it was an ugly, constipated toad.
Um… that was just a first impression, okay? I mean, just so everyone’s clear about that. I’m not calling a piece of art anything crude and derogatory. No, of course not.
So, where was I? Oh, yes. The piece certainly wasn’t reminiscent of any South American artifacts, and I didn’t think it was Aztec either. That made it interesting, assuming her grandfather hadn’t just been the victim of a practical joke.
The woman shoved the thing into my hand, and I had the strangest sudden sensation. It was like a prickly buzz through my skin, almost an electric shock. Of course, that’s impossible, because stone doesn’t hold or conduct electricity. She wrapped my fingers tightly around the object with a fierce grip until its sharp edges cut painfully into my palm. Then she quickly thanked me, told me she’d call to find out how the appraisal was going, and dashed out of my office without so much as a by-your-leave.
It was really the most extraordinary, rude, bizarre… At any rate, there I was, looking for a handkerchief to bind up my palm where it had bled on the toad. I mean frog. I knew letting that woman in was a mistake. Didn’t I say so? Well, there you are.
Can I get some more water to drink? Thank you.
I took the thing home with me in my briefcase. Couldn’t have it scaring the night cleanup crew, now could I? No, I went home, put the toad on my bookshelf, had a rather large Scotch, and went to bed.
I didn’t sleep well that night. I had peculiar dreams. Energetic, colorful, but at the same time bizarre and, um, intimate. I wasn’t at all my usual composed self when I went to work the next morning. I put the toad on the near corner of my desk. Nobody seemed likely to steal it, and I’d want it nearby to take pictures and send to my contacts on the antiquities circuit.
None of my inquiries bore any fruit. Actually, that’s not quite correct. Everyone I could reach insisted I was playing a poorly thought-out prank on them, that the artifact couldn’t possibly exist, and definitely not as part of their areas of expertise. Apparently, I had the world’s ugliest orphan of a paperweight. My mood was tetchy, and I still had to deal with a visit from the museum’s fundraising committee chair that afternoon.
Sandra Bradshaw was tall, red-headed, brassy, and butch. Not that her sexuality mattered – I wasn’t going to be unprofessional, and she only wanted my body for money. Oh, don’t make that kind of face! She wanted me as a trophy to display on the slate of the annual museum gala’s “Researcher Auction” event. I’d managed for three years to avoid that kind of dog and pony show, but this year I’d been advised by a friend on the Board that turning Sandra down might endanger my position. Well, we all have to make some sacrifices for our careers.
I prepared for her visit by decompressing with a lovely single-malt Scotch I’d picked up on a junket to the British Isles. I was on my third sip, so my glass was about forty percent water when Sandra marched into my office.
“I hope you’re going to be sober for the auction, Fairchild.” Did I mention that Sandra was also abrupt? She put me right out of my pleasant mood, but I assured her that one small glass of Scotch would not prevent me from impressing the evening’s guests. I also started briefing her on my planned speech when I saw that she wasn’t looking at me. I glanced in the direction of her eyes – she was staring at the toad. “What the hell is THAT thing?”
Her voice had all the pleasant features of curdled milk. I explained about the woman with the grandfather and the interesting non-Aztec features, but she interrupted me with “Fairchild – it’s ugly and we don’t need things like that around here. Get rid of it.” She practically bit the words off as they left her lips, and pointed accusingly at the toad.
So quick that I wasn’t sure I’d seen it, the toad’s mouth opened and a long wet tongue flashed out to curl around Sandra’s finger, then zipped back in. At least that’s what I thought I saw, but Sandra didn’t react. She didn’t even move. So it must have been the scotch.
I looked back from the toad to Sandra, and she was looking at me. No, staring at me, with the oddest expression on her face. “After the auction, Gordon, we need to – talk.” And she got up abruptly and dashed out of my office.
Well, that was peculiar. I had no idea the woman was aware I even HAD a first name. I shook off the oddness and checked my speech notes, then buttoned up my tux and went to slay the money dragons.
**
The “celebrity auction” went quite well. My speech was received with nice applause, and my winning bid was twenty thousand higher than that ass Hildebrandt from Native American studies. The museum had put out good Scotch for a change at the bar, so I was almost whistling as I found my way back to my office.
When I opened my office door, I was greeted by the sight of Sandra Bradshaw, sitting atop my desk, utterly naked, her freckled breasts and thick nipples pointing out at me. Her fingers were doing obscene things between her glistening thighs. “I thought you’d never get here,” she purred at me. Purred? Sandra Bradshaw?
She slid off the edge of my desk, leaving a wet trail, and glided around me to lock the door of my office. “You don’t know how valuable you are to the Museum, Gordon.” I could only gawk at this vision as she danced around to take me in her arms, grinding her sticky crotch against my tux pants and then lowering her face to give me a searing kiss the likes of which I had never experienced.
I must admit – I lost my professional demeanor. Between my confused efforts and Sandra’s deft fingers, I was soon naked, and my cock was a steel bar in her hand. She didn’t bother with any preliminaries, just laid me on the floor and mounted me like an animal, and oh god there was no resistance on my part. My body went on automatic pilot; in no time, I was shooting inside her, my eyes crossed following the swing of her breasts bouncing above my face.
I may have passed out. At any rate, I was only vaguely aware of her detaching from me, getting dressed, and leaving. I might have thought the whole thing an alcohol-fueled fantasy, were it not for the ache in my emptied groin and the sticky panties still sitting on my desk. I gathered up my things—and hers—put my clothes on, and headed home in utter confusion. I put the toad artifact on my dresser drawer, undressed, and flopped onto my bed without even bothering to shower.
When I woke up Saturday morning, my body was sticking to my sheets. The entirety of Friday night came back to me, and I stumbled to take a fiercely hot shower, scrubbing every inch of my body, even places I don’t usually think about. After a solid breakfast and a mug of good coffee, I felt my normal self again and headed to work. The day was normal; I didn’t see or hear from Sandra, thank goodness. There was nothing new from my inquiries about the toad artifact, so I was able to focus on my usual areas of interest and make plans for the upcoming state museum association conference.
Sunday, I attended a chamber concert—the Stamitz Quartet was in residence at the University performing the Dvořák string quartets. The concert was exquisite. You don’t know the Dvořák quartets? Ah well… after that, the rest of the day was unremarkable.
Things were normal at the museum on Monday as well, so much so that Friday’s events were the furthest thing from my mind. I had a memo from Sandra about the state conference, but there was nothing suggestive or worrisome about that – just part of my daily uneventful routine. Now, I did run across a really fascinating example of pre-Columbian metalwork that afternoon—
Break for lunch? Oh sure, my throat’s a bit dry from all this talking anyway.
(II)
Where was I? Oh yes. Nothing peculiar happened at the museum after the weekend. You know, people do react strangely to stress, so the thing with Sandra might have been only that. Bizarre, pleasant, but quite firmly put away in the past.
When I got home on Wednesday, my Mexican housekeeper, Florencia, was just finishing up in my bedroom. Florencia was the kind of help someone my age needs – fiftyish, dumpy, grey-haired, anonymous, and quiet. I’d inherited her on the recommendation of a colleague who had moved back to London. She was almost as much a fixture in my house as the coffee table in the living room. An original Pratchett, I’ll have you know, the detailing on the world-supporting turtles barely touched by age, and –
Oh, right, right. Well, I went into my home office to get her cash for the week, and when I returned, she had the toad in her hand. Something was different – the artifact looked less dusty, almost more vibrantly grey. And Florencia’s fingers were tracing around its surface in the most peculiar way, almost as if she were petting it. One fingertip had a bleeding spot on it, and I tensed up, expecting to hear a demand for money to cover a doctor visit. I thought the toad’s tongue whipped out and cleaned the blood off, but that certainly wasn’t possible.
I held out her weekly pay, but she let the bills fall to the floor untouched. Instead, she took off her top. Who knew under those clothes she had such large brown breasts? While I stared, she grabbed my hand and started drooling and sucking lewdly on my fingers while pushing and backing me up against the foot of my bed. When we got there, she reached down to cup the crotch of my slacks and flexed her palm to rub against me.
I can’t excuse or explain what happened next. I’m a degreed professional in my mature years, but suddenly it was like I was a horny twenty-year-old again. I allowed Florencia to remove my slacks and briefs, and then my eyes rolled back when she took me into her mouth. Oh god – I can’t tell you what that was like! And after that first explosion, she stripped naked and climbed onto my bed, swinging her wide rear side to side until my body took the cue and drove into her from behind, pumping until there was nothing left inside me.
Florencia petted my dazed face and draped a comforter over me, picked up her money and clothing, and rolled out of my bedroom casually naked. I blanked out and didn’t regain consciousness for several hours, starving for dinner and horridly embarrassed about what I’d done.
There was only one thing I could honorably do. I would have to find a new housekeeper.
Fortunately, I had no meetings on Thursday – I wasn’t in any mood to see or be seen. Finding a housekeeper at random who had references was more of a struggle than I could deal with, so I just threw myself into a stack of exhibit proposals that needed review. And Friday was only a half day because of the holiday weekend. I did get another memo from Sandra—I mean Sandra Bradshaw—about coming to see her about the state conference. Lovely, I’d be in a meeting about money while most of the museum had gone home. I wished my department coordinator a good weekend and headed to the museum’s administrative suite.
I settled into the inquisition seat, facing across the big desk from Sandra and being ignored, while she tended to some correspondence that was obviously more important than my mere presence. After a bit, the third-floor security guard came in to let us know they were locking up the building. As soon as he left the office and the door clicked shut, Sandra was out from behind her desk and spinning me around in my chair. What the hell? “Ms. Bradshaw—”
“Oh, Gordon, you of all people can call me Sandra. Maybe Sandy. Did you see Grease? Don’t you think I’m a Sandy?” I had no idea what grease had to do with anything, but she had done something with her hair. The top of her blouse was wide open, and those freckled breasts jiggled like an open invitation. “You know, Gordon, I pulled some strings for you. You remember what you were telling me about that thing you have for Pre-Cambrian art?”
I mumbled “Pre-Columbian” under my breath, but there was no stopping the woman.
“Well, there’s an international symposium in Lima this fall, and I landed a grant for it. Two weeks, first-class accommodations, and a generous per diem.” If I thought the previous encounter with Sandra had been a single bizarre incident, her quick transformation to a nude siren and her efficient removal of my pants and briefs left no room for argument. “I love being generous to you,” she breathed wetly into my ear, wriggling atop my genitals and making my erection obvious to us both, “and I need SO very little in return”.
Her hand clamped around my penis and rubbed the head around and around the slick wetness of her vagina. “I just want your cock inside me, Gordon. Surely you’d do that for a trip to Peru?” She didn’t wait for an answer, but pumped my erection up and slid atop me. Oh god – the muscle control of that woman! She said other things, too, about Peru and South American native sexual customs, but I was too busy clutching her ass and coming like a madman inside her to remember any of it.
I woke in the dark, sitting in that same chair, her panties knotted around my emptied balls. I stumbled like a drunkard to find my clothes and make my way back to my office so I could get presentable enough to have security let me out of the building.
Once could be a mirage. Twice felt like a habit. Two weeks in Peru – I didn’t want to think about two weeks in Peru. I just wanted to get Sandy’s—I mean Sandra’s—I wanted to take a long shower and go sleep off the whole thing.
(III)
The church bell was ringing incessantly, each vibrant sound echoing in the throbbing of my heavy balls. The village priest pointed his cross at me like a sword, babbling in a language I didn’t recognize as the bell rang louder and louder…
I opened my eyes in a blur of confusion. There was no church; I was in my own bed, naked, with a massive Saturday morning hangover. And my front doorbell was ringing. Reluctantly, I threw on a robe and went to see who was disturbing my morning.
Through the camera, I could see a young, rather attractive blonde, nose twitching as she tapped on her phone. I unlocked the door and poked my head out. “Can I help you, miss?”
The little bitch slammed her way into my house and stiff-armed me flat on my back! I had to grab my robe to keep from exposing myself, and meanwhile she ran wildly around my house yelling about some bastard and how she was going to rip his balls off for what he did to her mother.
I got to my feet and headed toward my home office to call the security company I was paying for. When I got there, the blonde was ransacking my things, and turned on me, wild-haired and eyes burning, brandishing something in her fist as she screamed at me.
“Where’s Gordon? Tell me where you’re hiding him or I’ll deal with you first!”
I backed away, watching her fist carefully. “Miss, there must be some mistake here. I’m Gordon Fairchild, and this is my house. I can assure you, I’m not hiding anyone who would have done anything to your mother. Um, perhaps we should call your mother and straighten this out?”
She looked at me disbelievingly. “You? You’re Gordon Fairchild? But you’re – OLD! My mother would never have sex with a MAN, much less someone like YOU!”
I honestly don’t know whether I was more insulted by her calling me old or more shocked to find that Sandra Bradshaw had a daughter. I could see the resemblance now that the woman’s face wasn’t distorted by rage.
“Miss, I don’t have any control over my age, and if you have a problem with your mother, you really need to talk to her about it, not me.” I was very relieved when…
