The Succubus


  “Detective Brody,” Eleanor cries, a distraught warble expertly implemented.  

  “Eleanor what are you doing here?” Brody asks, his back against his desk and the cache that lay beneath it. Eleanor approaches, her broken front impeccable as tears roll freely down her cheeks. She opens her arms, chokes out a sob and Brody does the rest, reaches forwards, touches her arms with his fingertips. The trap is sprung. A spark of the skin and a shiver down the spine and suddenly his eyes go dead, lifeless, his body erect but no mind to do anything with it.

  “That wasn’t so hard,” chuckles Eleanor as Brody’s arms fall to his sides. She reaches forwards, grabbing his belt and pulling his body close to hers.

  “Detective Brody!”, she says, feigning shock, “is that a pistol in your pants or-”

  She looks up at him with sultry eyes as she sends her spare hand diving into his trousers without hesitation and retrieves his hidden weapon.

  “Oh,” she says, disappointed, “it is. A Luger? how very anti-hero.”

  She crushes it with one palm as her other relieves him of his holstered, more conventional Sig Sauer and does the same with that.

  “I have to say,” Eleanor says as she pulls the chic sweater over her head, “I’m sorely disappointed. I was told you’d be so much more of a challenge. An obstacle, even.” She tuts and drops her skirt, stepping out of it delicately. “Ugh, clothes, why do you humans insist on such suffocating garb? If I have never have to don a sweatshirt ever again it will be too soon.”

  Her rant over, hey body naked, she continues her mission. She delves again into Brody’s pants, his pocket this time, and takes his phone.


~ by Joseph Blame on April 29, 2011.

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