Chapter 10

“Who were you talking to?” Her voice came from behind him.

He turned to find her standing in the doorway to the kitchen. She had a cup of coffee in her hand, and was wearing one of his dress shirts, unbuttoned, with the sleeves rolled up. Other than that, she was naked. The front of the shirt gaped open, not enough to reveal the tips of her breasts, but framing drooping pussy lips that were clearly visible. He thought about how, only hours ago, his stiff cock had been sliding between those pussy lips. Said cock lurched in his shorts. For being up at two in the morning she looked astonishingly beautiful. With sudden insight, he truly understood what the phrase, “looking like a well-fucked woman” meant.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Was I talking too loud?”

“No, but when I woke up you were gone, and I was cold.”

“Awww. I should have covered you up.”

“What you should have done was hold me,” she said. “So, who were you talking to? Do you have a girlfriend? Do I have competition?”

She tried to make it sound like she was either angry or worried, but couldn’t pull off either.

“Busted,” sighed Bob. “Actually, I have a whole harem of girlfriends, mostly supermodels, but a few big name movie stars too. That was Sandra Bullock. I was apologizing to her for neglecting her recently. She’s very upset. I haven’t taken her to bed for months!”

“You’re a dick. You know that? A big, pink penis. I have no freaking idea why I love you so much.”

“Okay, okay,” said Bob. “Don’t get excited. Why is it you get to tease me, but I don’t get to tease you back? That doesn’t seem fair.”

She closed the shirt, as if in warning. He capitulated instantly.

“That was a gentleman named Nigel ... you know what? I never even found out his last name.”

“Nigel,” she said. “That’s an interesting name.” The shirt came open again.

“He’s the caretaker of the castle in England, where the writing desk came from,” explained Bob.

“You mean Wood-something-or-other?” She sipped her coffee.

He tore his eyes away from those seductive pussy lips. He was fully hard now. His balls ached ever so slightly.

“Woodbury,” he said.

“Did you have a nice chat?”

“Actually, I did,” said Bob, and the excitement he was feeling changed from being sexually motivated back to what he’d been excited about before he saw her. “Marlowe stayed at the castle, and is rumored to have used the desk.”

“You’re kidding!” she said, her whole body tensing.

“I am not. There’s no proof, of course, but he did stay at the castle. And since he wasn’t of the nobility, that means he was probably engaged to write something for the then Lord Woodbury. He wouldn’t have been there for any other reason. And if he was writing, he had to write on top of something. It’s circumstantial, but it’s also tantalizingly believable. What’s even more tantalizing is that the rumor also says he stayed there just before he was arrested. If he produced our manuscript in that castle, and was then arrested, it’s easy to imagine him having to leave it behind.”

“So the manuscript was in the desk when Doctor Eldridge bought it?”

“That’s the unhappy part,” said Bob. “I asked Nigel if they looked inside the desk when it was sold, and he said they had, but that it was empty. He said it hadn’t been used for centuries. Imagine that. A piece of furniture sitting in a bedroom in a castle in England, that was untouched for as long as our whole country has existed.”

“In a bedroom? How do you know it was in a bedroom?”

“Nigel said it was in the room the Eldridges stayed in when they visited the castle. They rent out rooms in the castle, sort of like a bed and breakfast, I imagine. It helps with the expenses of upkeep. Anyway, he said this desk was in the room they rented, and that Eldridge begged them to let him buy it. Selling things like that also helps with the expense of upkeep, so they agreed.”

“Hmmm.” Kendra took another sip of coffee. “What if the manuscript was in the desk, and Doctor Eldridge found it? Would he have known it was written by Marlowe?”

“I suspected it as soon as I saw it,” said Bob. “Anybody who has studied Marlowe seriously has seen his writing. It’s pretty distinctive.”

“So he finds this manuscript, recognizes how important it is, but doesn’t tell them about it,” said Kendra.

“I’d hate to think that’s what happened,” said Bob.

“And then he buys the desk, knowing that it’s tied to the documents. Then, when he is ready to make his big splash in the waters you like to swim in, he has the desk as part of his ... what do you call it?”

“Provenance,” Bob supplied.

“Yes, provenance. He has an old manuscript with an old desk, from a castle where Marlowe was known to have stayed.”

“That would make him a thief,” said Bob. “He couldn’t do that, because the people at Woodbury Castle would scream bloody murder. He bought the desk, not the manuscript. Trust me, if he’d bought them both, they’d both be on the receipt. That would go a long way towards establishing the provenance.”

“So you’re saying it’s a complete coincidence that Doctor Eldridge stayed in the same bedroom as Christopher Marlowe did, hundreds of years earlier, where there was a writing desk that the locals claim was used by Marlowe himself, but that Eldridge found some of Marlowe’s writing somewhere else.” She cocked one hip. “Yeah. That kind of thing happens every day in the topsy turvy world of Elizabethan literature. I’m sure that’s how it happened.”

Bob sat there. He reflected on how, in what he now thought of as his previous life, (or pre-Kendra life), that kind of sarcasm, coming from a beautiful young woman, would have cut him to the quick. Now, amazingly, it wasn’t threatening at all.

“Surely, if this desk had been sitting there for hundreds of years, somebody would have been curious enough to open it before this,” he said. “If not a guest, then a maid. I can’t believe that that manuscript lay there that long without someone seeing it.”

“You have a point,” said Kendra. “If I was staying in a place like that, I’d open everything and poke around like a spy.”

“Perhaps you’ll get your chance,” said Bob.

“What?”

“Maybe we’ll go visit the castle some day.”

“Together? You and me?”

“Of course,” said Bob. “Unless you dump me. If you dump me I’m leaving you here.”

She walked the rest of the way to where he was sitting and set the cup down on the desk. With her hands on his chest, she pushed his chair back, rolling it far enough to give her room to straddle him. He had an errant thought that it was lucky he’d chosen a desk chair that had no arms, because if he’d gotten one with arms she wouldn’t have been able to sit like this. As he thought this, he was unable to keep from looking down to where her fat pussy lips were pressed against the underside of his boner.

“I don’t think I’m going to dump you,” she said, her voice overly casual. “It would be too much work to find another boyfriend.”

Her characterization of him as her “boyfriend” rattled him. He didn’t feel like a boy. The thought of being referred to by that term, in front of his peers, embarrassed him.

“Man friend,” he corrected.

She wiggled her hips. It was obvious she had realized he was hard, and was teasing him, rubbing her pussy against his erection.

“You are all man, I suppose,” she said. “It would still be too much work to replace you.”

“You could have any man you wanted,” said Bob.

“I want you,” she said, no longer teasing.

“Marry me,” he blurted. It just came out. It was so similar to vomiting that his stomach lurched immediately after he said it. He also felt an instant transition to terror that froze his body.

She didn’t react at all, at least on a physical plane. When she spoke, her tone of voice was purely conversational, without any extra emotion in it.

“We have to wait a little longer for that,” she said.

He knew he shouldn’t say anything else. His mind was spinning at the very idea that she hadn’t immediately rejected him. Again, though, the word came out of him without him being able to stop it.

“Why?”

“If I married you right now, it would cause a ruckus,” she said.

The English teacher in him paused to reflect on her use of a provincial word like “ruckus.” It was just natural that he tried to identify the regional influences in her life. He banished that thought, though. The actual subject under discussion was too important to get distracted.

“I’m not pushing,” he said, carefully, “but are you saying you might actually marry me some day?”

She leaned back, her hands on his shoulders.

“Do you believe I’m the type of girl who just hops into bed with any old Tom, Dick, or Harry she happens to take a fancy to?”

“Of course not,” he said.

“Do you believe I might actually allow some man to get his sperm inside me while I’m fertile, if I didn’t plan on being around that man for many, many years?”

“Uh, no,” said Bob, uncomfortably.

“I knew I was going to marry you when I applied for my job,” she said.

He blinked.

“You did?”

“Well, not when I first walked in,” she amended. “But within a week or so.”

“Wow,” sighed Bob.

“What? You don’t believe in love at first sight?”

“Is that what you think this is?”

“Not really. You were interesting. You were always there, watching me, your eyes eating me up. But it wasn’t creepy, somehow. I could tell you were different than the average guy, who just wanted to throw me down on the ground and fuck my brains out.”

He decided not to correct her erroneous characterization of him. He had wanted to throw her on the ground and fuck her brains out. He let her go on.

“Then I got the chance to get to know you. And it was so obvious that you were such a man when I was around.”

“What does that mean?”

“You got boners every time I walked into the room,” she laughed.

“Was it that obvious?”

“But again, it wasn’t creepy. You were so cute, trying to hide it, and be polite, and all that. You tried to be a gentleman. I think that’s what made me have to have you. You’re sweet, and humble, and polite. You pay attention when I say things. How could I possibly resist that?”

“I have to tell you it’s still a little hard for me to believe that a man like me can be with a woman like you,” he said.

“Melania Trump is with Donald,” she pointed out.

“Donald has a lot of money,” Bob pointed out in return.

“That doesn’t mean she can’t love him for who he is, independent of his wealth.”

“I’m not trying to talk you out of this,” said Bob.

“Then learn how to accept that I love you,” she said.

He didn’t want to argue. His mind was still whirling at the concept that this woman was willing to marry him. Some day. That whole concept turned the world sideways.

“Okay,” he said.

“You need to get this Marlowe business settled before we make the kind of waves getting married would make.”

“You’re very astute for someone so young,” he said.

“I’m astute enough to know that you have an erection,” she said, wiggling her hips again.

“Donald Trump probably gets an erection every time Melania sits on his lap like this too,” he joked.

She leaned forward to press her lips against his. It was a long, warm kiss. She pulled back almost reluctantly.

“My pussy is empty,” she whispered, clearly complaining.

“I have the solution for that,” he said.

She wiggled her hips again.

“I know.”

“Here, or in bed?” he asked.

“Bed is so far away,” she whined, hamming it up.

“Stand up,” he ordered.

She did, but only enough for him to reach and push the waistband of his shorts down, where it caught under his balls. Then she reached for him and notched the tip of his cock between those fat pussy lips he’d been looking at. She sank down slowly, making a sound that caused him to get even harder.

“Don’t make me do without this,” she moaned, leaning forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

“Why on Earth would I ever do that?” he asked.

“Just don’t,” she said.

Then her hips started jerking. With her feet on the floor, and her hands on the back of his desk chair, she had the kind of leverage that allowed her to control his position and movements. It was the reverse of the usual situation where the male pushed his cock into the woman, and then pulls it out. She now was in control of that movement. She was the one doing all the moving.

She ... was fucking him.

It took a full five minutes, primarily because, every once in a while she stopped and just wiggled against him while they kissed. Twice she leaned back and demanded that he suck on her nipples.

Eventually, though, she shuddered through an orgasm, biting his ear lobe painfully.

Then her hips went into overdrive and she whispered into the same ear.

“Cum in my pussy, Professor. Squirt me full of your man goo.”

Joyously, he did.

She leaned forward to press her naked breasts against his chest, still milking him, and bit his ear lobe again, but gently, this time.

“Now you can take me back to bed,” she whispered.

Bob opened the email eagerly. It was already a jarring combination of the old and new worlds. He now knew Nigel’s last name was Dillingham. In his mind, Nigel Dillingham represented the ancient, the historical, the old way. The @gmail.com following his name was what just looked wrong, somehow.

The body of the email was succinct: Enclosed is the photograph you requested. I wish you well in your endeavours.

He clicked on the enclosure and a photograph of what was obviously a bedroom appeared on his screen. He had to search, but he found what he was looking for on top of a Tudor style table against one wall. Next to a lamp and a vase of flowers was a box, also done in the ornate Tudor style. The lid to the box was propped open, revealing something red, possibly a cloth lining. The front of the box displayed three narrow drawers, above a longer, thinner one. A short shelf that looked like it could be folded up to cover the drawers was open, lying flat on the surface of the table. He couldn’t see any detail, except that it looked like there were two oval portraits, about the size of a brooch that might be worn on a necklace, on the surface of the front of the long, thin, lower drawer.

It was a tantalizing glimpse of something beautiful, and it convinced Bob that he had to see this item up close.

Two weeks later, settled comfortably in the familiar seat of his VW camper van, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on the almost horizontal steering wheel as the bus hummed down the interstate. They were only doing about 60, which was where the vehicle seemed to be happiest. As a result, they were regularly being passed by pretty much everybody else on the road.

Kendra was playing three different versions of the license plate game, all at the same time. She was proceeding through the alphabet, counting to 500, and keeping a record of the different states on license plates that went past them. Bob was mildly amazed that she could do all of this in her head.

He glanced over at her frequently. She seemed to be paying no attention to him at all, her concentration consumed by the statistics she was manipulating. The heater worked fine at this speed, and she had removed her down jacket, exposing a plaid work shirt that tantalized him. This was because the slight bouncing of her breasts under the shirt made it obvious she wasn’t wearing a bra, but the plaid pattern foiled his attempts to see her nipples. He’d almost never seen them soft. It seemed that, if she was awake, so were her nipples. He was used to seeing them dent whatever shirt she was wearing, assuming she didn’t have on a bra.

At one point he took in the faded jeans she was wearing. He couldn’t see them, but he knew she had on lace up hiking boots. All in all, she looked like a very feminine kind of lumberjack. Her blond pony tail bounced like her breasts did, as she leaned forward to peer at the back of a vehicle as it passed them. She spoke out loud, keeping him up to date on where she was in the game.

He was disabused of his notion that she wasn’t paying any attention to him when, during a lull in passing traffic, she looked over at him.

“If your eyes were the sun, I’d be bright red by now,” she commented.

“What do you mean?”

“You watch me as much as you watch the road,” she accused.

“You’re gorgeous. What can I say?” he said.

“Do you need a blow job to get your attention back on driving?”

He grinned. He thought she was kidding.

“Well?” Her interrogative made it clear she wasn’t kidding at all.

“We’re on the interstate,” he said. “I don’t think there’s a rest area for a while.”

“Who needs a rest area?” she said. “Look at all that room between us.”

She was referring to the space between the front seats that allowed one to walk into the back. The image of her on her knees in that space, her head in his lap, suddenly popped into his brain.

“If you think I’m distracted now, you have no idea how much I’d weave around if you were doing that,” he said, still smiling widely.

“Think of it as training in discipline,” she said. “You’ll learn to concentrate on what’s important, instead of your balls.”

“Concentrating on my balls is very important, when you’re involved,” he countered.

“Unless you understand the fact that you’ll probably have the chance to fuck my poor pussy a thousand times in the future,” she said, her voice normal as pie.

“Wow,” he sighed, softly. “What a concept.”

“Besides, I’m hungry,” she said.

“There’s a cooler in the back, and a whole bag of munchies,” he reminded her.

“I’m hungry for something hard, yet soft in my mouth, something I can suck on and play with, that won’t get soggy, or fall apart.”

“Oh, man,” moaned Bob. “Where is that fucking rest area?”

“I told you,” she said, and her voice changed to a guttural attempt to sound male. “We don’t need no fucking rest areas.”

“You’re insane.”

“You’re horny.”

“I’m always horny around you.”

“Can I suck your dick or not?”