Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Fiction, Masturbation, Violent, .
Desc: Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 1 - William Cross was always sleeping on the job. This private investigator had the unique ability to find clues in the world of the subconscious. People literally paid him to dream about them. Until a woman walked in and woke him up.
The sign on the door said "CROSS."
It described the man standing in front of it.
The office door always stuck in the wintertime. Normally this wasn't something worth getting mad about, but there was a new tenant across the hall, and...
"Hey, Billy-boy!" The voice from behind dripped with derisive friendliness.
"My name is William." He'd only made the correction every day this week...
"Sure, Billy, Willy, whatever. So you're here bright and early for another hard day's nap?"
William Cross' fist clenched tighter around the doorknob, imagining it was the other man's neck...
The door popped open with a wooden grunt.
"So, Cross, do you actually have a desk in there, or just a couch?"
As if Will hadn't heard every lame joke about the way he worked a hundred times before.
"So, Bob, did Miss Johnson ever find that locket?"
Bob got suddenly sheepish. "Uh, yeah."
"Behind the piano, right?"
"So you'll be paying me now."
"Soon as Miss Johnson pays me."
Will retreated into his office. "Yeah."
Bob was suddenly in the doorway, joviality gone for the first time. He looked a little weirded out. "Hey man, doesn't it bother you that you dream about other people's stuff?"
Will shrugged. "Not as long as it pays the bills."
"Well, it gives me the creeps. --Oh, hey, some dame was looking for you earlier."
Dame? Who was the weird one here? "Did you get a name?"
"Nah, she just said she'd try back later."
"Anyway, have a good day." Bob's next words seemed uncomfortable, like a straight man wishing a gay friend good luck on a date. "Pleasant dreams."
It wasn't exactly respect, but it would do. "Thanks."
Bob retreated. The door groaned shut under the weight of Will's shoulder.
A woman, looking for him? Definitely not a social call. A fellow professional? No, the whole building would have been abuzz with such news, so it couldn't be that; it had to be a client.
Will didn't generally get clients. Almost all of his work was for other private investigators. He liked it better when he didn't have to meet anyone. At least, not in the real world -- it made seeing them in Dream a little weird.
In fact, it had been so long since someone outside the business had stopped by that he wasn't sure he'd remember how to talk. Especially to a woman.
He'd probably just refer her to somebody. Maybe Bob.
Then again, if he didn't entertain the occasional conversation with a woman -- not counting Fran at the supermarket and the receptionist in Dale Harvey's building and the widow Fredrickson in his apartment building -- he might become completely dysfunctional around them. And while he didn't have any room in his life for such diversions at present, he'd been getting the itch again. Talking to a client -- safe, neutral, professional -- it would be good practice.
But what if she was attractive? He didn't need that.
Maybe he'd just wait and see.
No sense dwelling on it. There was work to do.
Papers covered the desk -- neat stacks.
Nine inches of bills paid. They'd get shoeboxed, just as soon as he bought another pair of shoes.
An inch of new bills. Six inches of credit card offers.
Two inches of cases Closed Pending Payment.
Two thin manila folders of Open Cases, nestled next to the phone. One of which now needed to be moved.
Will picked up the other folder.
From Cawthorne Investigations across town. Alec Cawthorne always paid up front. Will should have worked Cawthorne's case before Bob's, but for some reason he thought he should give his new neighbor a break.
Well, Cawthorne's had just come by messenger yesterday. If Will got right to work on it, he'd probably come up with something today.
There was no chair behind the desk -- he'd fallen asleep one too many times in it, always waking up with a stiff neck. The couch beckoned.
Eight feet long. Four cushions. Pillowed armrests. Synthetic suede fabric. Scotchguard. The garish floral pattern had made it cheap. Will solved most of his cases on it.
He sat down on the left-middle cushion, skimming through the pages in the file. Ladies' wedding ring. First noticed missing two days ago. Connie Carlisle, husband Drew. Snapshot from a family dinner. Probably Thanksgiving. Both a little heavy, but he could see they'd both been good-looking in their youth. Smartly but not extravagantly dressed. Home address. Only removed the ring to cook and clean house. The ring. Description: size 7, simple band, one-caret brilliant cut center stone, soldered wrap with a pair of fifth-caret stones...
Will put the file down. More details wouldn't help. It was all about the connection. Things were easy to find if someone cared about them enough.
Pivot. Feet up. Head back. Eyes closed.
Time for a nap.
Will took deep breaths, each one slower than the last. He focused on his heartbeat, letting its rhythm soothe him. The world faded.
And then it refocused. Will was in Dream.
He's in front of the Carlisle house. Numbers painted on the curb.
Inside. Connie, on the couch, watching... a home improvement show. She can't see him.
He sees her hand. Up close. No ring.
A memory. The ring. On her hand. Glowing bright, making everything around darken by comparison.
More memory. Ring tugged off. Set down on tile. Kitchen.
He's in the kitchen. He peers through the sink. The trap is dark. If the ring was here he would see it glow -- he would sense it.
Jewelry box? Dark. The whole house dark. The ring is not here.
So this would not be quite the cakewalk. Will would actually have to work.
Back to Connie. He crouches next to her; she is of course oblivious. His hand rises to her face; with contact, a faint tingling.
It's trickier when they're awake. On the other hand, there's a lot less outside distraction in Dream in the daytime, and he doesn't know where the trail is going to lead.
Wine glass. Cloth napkin. A restaurant booth. A handsome young man, puffed up and smiling, trying and failing to be at ease. Drew Carlisle.
His hand touches hers on the table.
No ring. Connie's hand is smoother, younger.
Garden. Awful dresses -- the thin friend looks flat-chested and the buxom friend looks fat.
Drew in a tuxedo. Crying and smiling. The two smaller stones join the large one on her finger.
Will takes it slow, letting the images wash over him, waiting for context to form on its own. There are a lot of memes connected to the ring here, and if he touches anything now, the contact might make the whole subject rise to consciousness, and then he'd lose them.
Besides, if he pushes too hard and she thinks she's remembered on her own, he won't get paid.
Darkness. Ceiling. Boredom. Hand on her breast. Mechanical. Drew over her, looking serious. The diamonds there on the ring on her finger on his shoulder, glinting in the moonlight. Raw warmth. Gasping beside her. A quiet tear.
Bump -- Shift.
The ring glinting in the sun as a doorknob turns. A motel room. A man sitting on the bed, looking sheepish. Not Drew. Attractiveness. Youthful excitement. Uncertainty. Thrill. Climax.
Mailbox. Envelope. Photographs. The world suddenly dims, constricts. A note in aggressive block letters. Not Drew. A number. A dollar sign. A date. A betrayal.
He knows where this is leading, but he tries to let it come to him. It approaches with the subtlety of a parade.
Ring off. Held carefully. Eyed closely. Surrendered. Cash on the table. The receipt -- what does it say? Out of focus; pocketed. Which coat? Retreating. Look back. Look back. The sign: Pawn Shop. Name? Name! There. Sign. It says:
"Hey, quit sleeping on the job."
Will yanked out of Dream; eyes snapped open.
A woman was shaking him.
A beautiful woman.
Will looked away, mad -- he'd almost solved the case. He hated interruptions. How'd she get in? She was really beautiful -- must have bribed the landlord? He'd have to have a talk with him again.
He stood up, crossing to his desk as an excuse not to look at her. He cursed the brief look he'd gotten: slender, gentle feminine curves in a pale summer dress, flowing dirty-blond curls around a wry smirk and piercing-but-playful eyes. Papers shuffled; he stared at them without seeing, waiting for the image of an angel with attitude to fade.
"How'd you get in here?"
"Does it matter?"
"What do you want?"
Her heels clicked around to his left; his peripheral vision caught a damning glimpse of flared skirt dancing about smooth thighs.
"I'd like you to make eye contact, for starters." She touched his cheek; he pulled away.
"Come back later."
"I..." Her toughness fell away. "I can't. I'm taking a chance just being here now."
Great, a damsel in distress; this was getting worse by the second. "I'm busy."
"Obviously." The biting tone covered something; Will did his best to ignore it.
"Look, I don't come to your work and tell you how to do your job." A quick glance at her attire told him that might be... interesting.
"I charge extra for that." Now he looked -- not just a peek, but a full-on stare: was she... ?
Her look was quite serious.
But then it cracked. "Gotcha."
And how. Now he was doubly mad -- she was beautiful. He'd be thinking about her for days. Maybe weeks. He wouldn't be able to work. He might not find the other woman's ring before it got sold. He wouldn't be able to work on anything else, either. The faster he got rid of this Jezebel the better.
"I'm not taking new cases right now. Why don't you go see Jackson on the first floor; infidelity is more his thing anyway."
"I need you."
Like that wouldn't be echoing in his fantasies for weeks...
"I heard about you -- about how you find things."
About how, or just that he did?
"I need you to find something for me. Something I lost. It actually belongs to my husband."
"Is it personal?"
He hesitated -- mystery worked better than truth. "It helps. What is it?"
"I'm not sure."
"I'm not sure I can."
She probably didn't mean to be frustrating, but... "Well... how big?"
"Small, I think." Think?
"What color is it? What's it made of?"
"I'm not sure what it looks like."
Will gave a big sigh for effect. "You want me to find something, but it's your... husband's. And you don't know what it looks like. So how do you know it's lost?"
"According to you, I don't have anything better to do." Looking like that, she was going to monopolize his time whether she was here or not, so she might as well tell him her story...
"You wouldn't understand if I told you."
She hesitated. Was she trembling? "Never mind. This was a mistake." She turned to go.
Something in him clicked. "Hold on." He quickly grabbed her hand. The move was instinctive, almost desperate. She looked at him, scared; he let go.
An uncharacteristic smile covered his tactile retreat. "You hungry? I was thinking about getting a bite to eat. You can join me if you like."
Her fear held for a moment, shifting from the immediate to something bigger. But then it melted. Whatever her hesitation, she seemed to harden against it, her face brightening with a defiant grin. "Yeah, okay."