Another week, another writer’s block, or worse, either is quite true really. “Second Coming” is … sort of coming … but the next part of that story isn’t done as yet. I really haven’t had a lot of time to write, to think of, or have something, push its way out onto the screen and drive me onwards. Still, things happen, vague thoughts come into being something. The thought then becomes: what’s being …
There are those in the universe that require evidence to believe in something: solid proof of some description with nothing that’s vague or might be happenstance. Some of the more focused ones call themselves “scientists.” They examine the world in its minutia, seeking out the reasons for why things are as they are, figuring out how they work, putting the world into a framework. This, at least, is what they plan on. Much of the time that works very well … except, of course, when it doesn’t.
Dr. Richard (and no, you cannot call him “Dick”) Edwards was one of those scientists that accepted only what his test equipment told him. Scales and monitoring equipment provided the data to verify whether something was true or false, actual or not. There was no room in his world for such things as fantasy, for the idea of things that were, just slightly, outside of his frame of reference. Except that there was one thing that nagged at him, one thing that he didn’t quite understand.
In every institution of science there is someone that comes along to test one’s theories. One or more colleagues pick them apart, looking for the errors, pointing out the things that seem obvious to them, but not to the one that had been seeking out the answers. Some call them fact checkers, others call them examiners. For Dr. Edwards, he called her Miss Horn, and she was a real problem, one that no amount of measurement could put into context exactly.
She was irritating and bothersome and poked around his lab every day. She was the cause, he was sure, of much of the failure of his more sensitive equipment. He could hear the click-clack-click of her heels at the door every morning and every evening, every time she passed by once more. Oh, she was polite enough, she did have a nice voice, and while her personality was more than a bit outgoing, that was nothing compared to the other problem he had with her.
You see, it didn’t matter how professionally she dressed, there was no possible way to hide the depth of her cleavage. And his eyes were drawn there unerringly. She did have a thing for the professional look mixed with a just a hint … well, if he was to be truthful, it was a heaping shovelful … of seductiveness, mixed in a way that invariably captured his attention.
But he’d managed to remain professional throughout their interactions. He hadn’t drooled at the slit of her skirts that left no doubt of the color of her panties, or that she was wearing thigh-high stockings, the lace teasing out from the bottom of her skirt, causing his fingers to twitch from time to time. Standing nearby, being the proper gentleman as she bent over his desk, hands on either side of the desk blotter, reading his work. He managed only to gaze upon the curves of her hips while her skirt did wonderful things to her bottom as it stretched itself, moulding to her.
No he hadn’t lost himself when she rolled her hips, occasionally looking over her shoulder at him, an eyebrow raised in the midst of challenging some point in his research. Nor did her eyes, peering at him through her horn-rimmed glasses, cause him to do some of the decidedly erotic things that crept into his thoughts. He even managed not to stare, well at least not to drool, as the dear woman wrapped her lips around her index finger before using that slick digit to turn over one page for the next.
When she wasn’t looking, he did clutch at whichever table he was standing near, trying very … hard … not to blurt out something inane or stupid or, worst of all, express some of the thoughts that were egging him onwards. This all went on from the first day that Miss Horn, with her delightfully red hair in a severe bun, had entered his world, and it just kept getting more and more present and severe as time went onwards.
It all came to a head when she’d questioned a particularly complex formula and he blurted out: “You couldn’t possibly understand those equations, Miss Horn!” With the words out in the open, he found himself the target of her deep blue eyes, searing him through her glasses. Pursed lips were not a good thing. The crossing of arms over her wonderful cleavage was even worse. She was not, at all, happy.
“I beg your pardon, Dr. Edwards?”
In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought: “I do not believe you have the means, or ability, to question my equations. Nor, I expect, have you the mental alacrity to see past my work to my ultimate goal.”
Her smile was evil, there was no other way to put it: “Really? Is that so?”
A rational mind would, at this point, look for a way out, to exit the field of battle with their dangly bits still intact. Richard, while he was a brilliant mathematician, wasn’t very good at dealing with objects of one’s desires that seemed to be set on one thing. Thinking that, perhaps, being less formal might work, he tried: “Miss Horn … Addison … If you’d …”
“My name is not Addison … I’m well aware of your name however, Dick. But you don’t know mine?”
“I would prefer you not use that name.”
She crossed the lab in three strides and he found himself looking into her eyes, having nowhere to run, feeling very much like one of the mice in the mazes that were in the other labs. Pausing very close, her purse was shrugged off her shoulder. Opening it, she fished out a small silver business card.
“What is my name, Dick?”
She looked at the card, shook her head and then, with a snap of her fingers put the card upside down on the counter beside him.
“No, your name is Addison. I’ve heard others …”
“You’ve heard my name … but you haven’t … heard … my name. I find that distressful … Dick.”
Attempting to hold onto some sense of control, the apology was hurried: “I apologize.”
Then, he turned to the card—obviously her business card—his fingers brushed over it, intending to flip it over, to read her proper name and move on.
Her voice—sharp, but at the same time making him sweat came: “You’ve been testing a lot of things … haven’t you, Dick?”
“What do you mean?”
“Testing this … testing that … I’m sure you have notes on everything you’ve been testing, haven’t you?”
The woman that had been captivating him in his dreams, in his thoughts said the one thing he wasn’t prepared for: “Does that include … me? Have you a book, listing your tests? My responses?”
Frantically waving his hands, the trapped researcher’s voice rushed faster still: “I’ve done no such thing! I haven’t made any notes!”
That evil smile turned in a way that made her next words a purr of delight: “So, you admit you’ve been testing me, then?”
“I have not! You have no evidence that I …”
He stood his ground. Of course she didn’t. There wasn’t any … at least nothing that was actually written down. The touch of her long burgundy nails put paid to the lack of evidence: “mmmm … your stiff cock seems to betray you.”
Out of desperation, he pushed her hand away: “Miss Horn! Please! Restrain yourself!”
Her hands only moved to toy with his lapels: “Oh you’d like that … wouldn’t you? Tying me up? Bending me over your desk? All … so … helpless as you did … anything … you wanted?”
The mouse, trapped by the cat, wanted to refuse her: “Addison! I would do no such thing!”
The tigress licked her lips: “Oh? I think you’d do more. You’d tease me, make me cry out for your cock, scream in delightful heat as your fingers dipped inside of me, caressing my clit, rubbing my heat, my honey dripping …”
Her smirk was heat itself as she pushed him against the counter, then along it: “Yes … Dick?”
“This is completely unprofessional!”
The counter came to an end. Luckily, or perhaps by design, the flustered scientist found himself in a chair, the object of his lusts hovering over him. As she pulled a hairpin out, her red tresses became loose, a waterfall of blazing desire framing her slick, wet, shiny, burgundy lips, her gleaming blue eyes in shadow: “Then … let me be … very … professional … Dick.”
He’d been so held by her eyes that he hadn’t noticed her glasses were gone. But he did notice her hands fumbling with his belt, tugging on his slacks before … before … his mind froze in mid-thought. There was nothing he could do as her fingers toyed with his shaft, her lips swirled around, then over, its swelling head, teasing all of the sensitive places in ways that made his knuckles white as he hung onto the armrests for dear life. There was no question in what was left of the examiner’s mind: she passed her oral exam with flying colours.
Her lips came free with a pop, followed by another wanton lick of the tip, as if she was toying with an ice cream cone: “What’s my name … Dick.”
It was a struggle, she didn’t stop nibbling, licking, devouring him to her delight as he whimpered: “Aaaadddisonnnn …”
Her lips left him, his hips trying to push himself back to their warm wetness, but she’d moved too far away as she looked him in the eyes: “Close. But no.”
Letting go, her fingers undid her blouse, then with a shimmy, her skirt fell away, leaving her bare save for her burgundy lace panties, bra, and stockings. He could hear her heels—burgundy, of course—scraping on the tile floor as she straddled him.
Her breath warmed him, her eyes inescapable: “Say my name.”
He moaned in want: “Aaaadddisonnnn …”
A long, sinuous, burgundy, heart-tipped tail rose into the air behind her: “Say … my … name …”
Whimpering, needing, he begged her: “Aaaadddisonnnn …”
A pair of burgundy horns rose into her flaming hair, her voice all consuming: “Say … my … name …”
The cry came from the depths of his soul, his fantasies tested, his needs probed, the answer being the only one that mattered: Addisyn!”
The one being tested moaned in delight at her name: “mmm … yesssss … You pass the test … Dick.”
From that day onwards, there was one person that could call him Dick … but she had a very good reason. She passed all of the tests.