Chapter 9

"Well fuck me to tears," sighed Bob.

"I'd be happy to," said Kendra, who was lounging on the couch, eating popcorn. "This must be important," she added. "You don't use language like that unless you're rattled."

"There it is," he said, ignoring her comments. "Sixteenth Century portable writing desk from Canterbury, England. Condition, good."

"Portable writing desk?" Kendra's voice rose.

"Yeah," he said. "Back then, authors traveled around because they got hired by different patrons to produce written prose. Say, for instance, that some rich young man of the landed gentry wanted to woo some pretty girl. His father might hire somebody like Marlowe to write a number of love poems that the young man would then hand over as his own work."

"That's fraud!" said Kendra.

"It's no different than buying a Valentine's Day card," said Bob.

"Except you don't claim to have created the card yourself," argued Kendra.

"Don't tell me you think all the love notes you got as a teenager were original ideas, created in the minds of your pimply-faced admirers. Where do you think they got all that flowery speech? They went to the store and plagiarized it from Hallmark cards, that's where."

"No, what you're actually saying is that you stole ideas from Hallmark and gave them to some poor girl so she'd think you were smart. I never got any love notes from anybody. Not like that. Most of mine said I was hot and had great tits."

"Ahhh," sighed Bob. "Now that was original work. Were you impressed? Did you award them with a view of your alabaster orbs, with tips like ripe strawberries, simply aching to be consumed during torrid sessions of ardent lovemaking?"

She looked at him.

"That's not from Hallmark," she admitted.

"So do I get a reward? Are you going to show me those great tits?"

"In your dreams," she snorted.

"But you get my meaning," he insisted. "That's how men like Marlowe survived. They were hired by those men who, all they could think of was, 'gee, what great tits!'." So they had to move around a lot. You don't drag a desk the size of mine all over England and maybe France. What you do is have somebody build you a portable desk. I've seen pictures of them."

"So you think this desk belonged to Christopher Marlowe?"

"I have no idea," said Bob. "That would be more coincidence than the odds allow. But it's very interesting. I really think this has something to do with our manuscript. We need to find out more."

"Like what?"

"Like who bought this at the auction," said Bob.

"Why didn't you buy it?" she asked. "For that matter, why didn't you even know it was there? This is right up your alley, isn't it?"

"Not really," he said. "I study documents, not the furniture they were authored on."

"Well, whatever you say," she said. "How do we find out who bought it?"

"We should be able to ask the auction company," said Bob.

"Let me do that," she suggested.

"Why?"

"Because I feel like all I do is sift through musty old papers. I want to do something more exciting."

"I'm sorry I'm so boring," said Bob, wryly.

"You're not boring. What you hired me to do is a little boring."

"Poor baby," he teased.

"Speaking of babies, since you failed so miserably to make one in me, what do you intend to do about that?"

"I thought that was just a little fantasy," he said.

"It was. Doesn't mean it still can't be."

"Damn," he said.

"What?"

"You have given me yet another erection."

"Really?" She sounded excited. All that did was make him even harder. "Can I see it?"

"Here? We really should stop all this hanky panky at work. Sooner or later somebody is going to come in and catch us."

"They haven't so far. Are you expecting anybody?"

"Well ... no," he admitted.

"I have an idea," she said.

"You're just full of ideas," he teased some more.

"You have to change chairs, though," she said.

"Chairs? Why?"

"Because that one has arms on it," she pointed out.

Less than five minutes later she had settled on his lap, this time straddling him as he sat in the only straight-backed chair in the office. Her skirt flowed down to conceal the fact that she had removed her panties and extracted his rigid cock from his pants. That erection was snuggly encased in her hot, wet vagina and she was kissing him as she flexed her pelvic floor muscles. She removed her lips from his long enough to add psychological urgency to the physical urgency he was already feeling.

"Do you think your handsome older sperm cells can defeat one of my youthful eggs this month, old man? Are you ready to spew me full of all that dangerous genetic material I could feel filling your balls? I'd like that. I've never been pregnant before. I've never even wanted to be pregnant before. And don't bring up Uncle Rick. He doesn't count, because I didn't know what I was doing back then. But now I do. I know exactly what your little wigglers might make inside me and I get the shivers when I think about that. What is it about you that makes me want to give you a son? Cum in me, lover? Come on. Just a little squirt for Kendra's belly?"

She gave a little hop, jerking her hips while she squeezed him. Her pony tail flailed behind her head.

His own head fell back as he gave in to the urge to cum.

It felt like a lot more than semen was leaving his body to enter hers.

It felt like some of his soul was jetting into her, melding with her own.

"I have what you want," said Kendra when she sauntered through the door to Bob's office. "Want it now?"

He looked up from his computer screen.

"Not to look a gift horse in the mouth, but I was kind of hoping you could sleep over tonight."

"I'm going to. I'm going to fuck you blind tonight."

"If you give me what I want now, I may not be able to fuck you blind tonight," he said, smiling weakly.

"It's me who's going to fuck you blind, not the other way around," she said, with cool confidence. "But that's not what I meant. I found out who bought the desk."

"Ah," he said. "Something of interest, I admit, though not nearly as captivating as the previous images that were whirling around in my mind."

"You're sweet," she said. "His name is Bernie Jenkins, and he went to the auction as an agent for a museum in Boston."

"Really? What kind of museum?"

"It's called the Historic New England museum," she said. "That's all the information they had."

"Well, then," said Bob. "I think a trip to Boston is on the schedule."

"Really? Just to see this desk?"

"It was purchased from a castle in Christopher Marlowe's home town," said Bob. "We haven't found an invoice for the actual manuscript, right?"

"No," she admitted.

"Maybe the manuscript was inside the writing desk," suggested Bob.

"No way," said Kendra. "Anybody selling a desk like that would have looked inside it before they sent it off to America. Come on!"

"Maybe it wasn't visible when they looked inside the desk," said Bob.

"You mean a secret compartment? Bob, you've been reading too many Nancy Drew novels."

He laughed.

"I loved those books when I was a kid. And I wanted Nancy Drew books more than the Hardy Boys, because then I could fantasize about being Ned and plundering her pussy on the pages of the book that weren't printed."

"Is that why you're so smitten with me?" asked Kendra, coquettishly. "I'm blond. Do I remind you of Nancy?"

"I confess that the things we do are very similar to the things I dreamed about doing with her," he admitted.

"I am so going to fuck you blind tonight," she said, grinning.

"How about you go with me to Boston? We can take the bus and camp out along the way. I've never been fucked blind in my camper."

"What camper?" she asked.

"You've never been in the garage," he said. "For the trip to Chicago I rented a car, but I own a VW camper van. Has a bed in it and everything."

"You're a closet hippy!" she giggled.

"If believing that will get you in the van, on that bed, then fine, I'm a closet hippy," he said, agreeably.

She folded her arms under her breasts. It displayed them rather nicely.

"I took Dr. Poindexter's Hippy class," she said. "I'm an expert at hippy sex."

"He's supposed to be teaching English," said Bob. "Though he does damn little of that, I suspect."

"Somebody doesn't like Dr. Poindexter," said Kendra, in a sing-song voice.

"Somebody doesn't respect his work," Bob corrected. "But let's not talk about him. Let's talk about going to Boston."

"Boston is probably two days away by ancient hippy conveyance," she said. "And then two days back. I can't just pick up and leave school for a week. That would never fly with Coach Sinderson."

"What if you had a family emergency and had to leave for a few days?"

"I'm not going to lie to my coach, Bob. I like her. She's been very good to me."

"Yeah, you're right. I just thought it would be cool to fuck you blind in my van, where I've spent countless lonely nights without a hot cheerleader in bed with me."

"It's me who's doing the fucking blind ... remember? Don't go senile on me, Gramps."

"I'm not a gramps," he said. "I have to have my own children before I can be a grandfather."

"Something we'll work on later tonight when I fuck you blind," she said.

"Something has occurred to me," said Bob.

"What's that?"

"Semester break is coming up."

"True."

"Won't Coach Simpleton be expecting you to disappear for a while then?"

"It's Coach Sinderson, you big dork, and you know that."

She stopped, suddenly, and her eyes widened.

"You're right. Really? You mean it? Go camping in the middle of winter?" Her voice rose an octave.

"Of course I do. I have a heater, and I can think of an even better way to keep warm. But don't you want to go see your folks at Christmas time?"

"We had this discussion at Thanksgiving," she said. "I just don't want to freeze to death when your antique camper thingy breaks down. I haven't seen one of those things since I was a little girl."

"No breakdowns," he said. "She runs like a top and I'll hear any problems long before they cause real damage and impede our trip. I rebuilt her engine myself."

"People have no idea who you really are," said Kendra. "I am constantly amazed at the things you reveal."

"Really?" He preened a little.

"Really," she said. "Yes. I'll go to Boston with you. What girl gets a chance to be impregnated in a Volkswagen camper van these days? We'll re-enact the sixties. It will be something to tell our grandchildren about when you really are a gramps."

"Okay," he said, clapping his hands. "I'm excited!"

"Get your coat," she said. "We're leaving."

"We are?"

"Very soon now, you will be blind," she said. She shamelessly pulled up her skirt and rubbed the gusset of her panties, making it clear she'd shown them to him intentionally.

Bob closed his eyes and mimed using his hands to feel his way around.

"I'll manage. Do your worst."

"I love you so much," she said, softly. "Have I ever told you I love you?"

"A few dozen times," he said, grinning.

"Well, I meant it. Look around and use your vision now, because very soon now you will be flailing in the dark, blind, a husk of your former self, for I will have fucked you so limp I may even have to feed you for a while."

"Sounds like some kind of torture," said Bob. "Why am I so eager to be tortured in this fashion?"

She got up and came around the desk, pulling him to his feet. Her arms went around him tenderly.

"I changed my mind," she said, kissing his ear lobe. "I should be nice to you tonight. I'll make love to you instead of fucking you blind."

"I'll get my coat," he said.

"Hurry," she whispered, and rubbed the front of her skirt against his zipper.

"Please, Bob," groaned Kendra as she writhed on the bed.

She was naked. Her hair was mussed. Her face was flushed from the most recent of a string of orgasms.

He lifted his lips from her left nipple, which he'd been gently sucking. That was the source of her most recent orgasm.

"I'll get to the other one in a minute. Be patient."

"I want you inside me," she whined.

"The girls have been feeling neglected," he said. "I can tell." He dropped his mouth back to the nearly inch long turgid nipple and he sucked as if he were trying to coax milk from it.

"I want you to fuck me!" she moaned.

He lifted his head again, only long enough to say, "I will. Don't worry."

"This is the longest I've ever been naked with a guy and not been fucked yet," she complained.

He moved his fingers, which had been making lazy circles on her flat belly, to her bald mons. Her hips lifted as her legs spread wide, wanting any kind of penetration. She groaned again as he slid a finger deep inside her, reaching with the tip to circle and tease her cervical mouth.

Then, suddenly, her hands pushed violently at his chest. She was a strong girl and even though he was bigger, he couldn't help rolling, landing on his back. She was on him like a tiger, twisting and, somehow, almost leaping to land on top of him. As if she had practiced for hours, her hand found his erection and she sat up to impale herself on it, slamming down, taking him inside her in one savage drop.

"Don't move!" she ordered, wiggling on top of him, luxuriating in the depth of his penetration.

"Not even to play with the girls?"

"I've just had four orgasms while you played with the girls," she growled. "In case you didn't know it, constant stimulation of a woman's breasts can cause her to start producing milk, even when she hasn't had a baby."

"How delightful that would be," he sighed. "I've heard that breast milk tastes sweet."

"I want them to make milk because of what's inside me right now," she panted, "not because you artificially induce lactation."

"It's just so much fun hearing you cum just because I'm sucking a nipple."

"You're good at it, I'll give you that," she said, giving her hips a rapid forward and backward movement that reminded Bob of a belly dancer. "Maybe the best."