Chapter Twelve.
The Three Labours Of Agatha Christie
xxx
"Edgar Wolstenholme awaits your presence. inside."
The big oaf jerked his thumb over his shoulder and sneered.
"Very well," said Agatha Christie defiantly.
As she passed him he rubbed his chin and ogled her lecherously. Dressed in the height of fashion the short-haired redhead wore a red velvet cloche hat over her short bob. Her sleeveless fringe dress had a defined draped asymmetric hem and a plunging neckline.
Only the day before, Agatha had been lying in her bed in London, lazily reading that morning edition of the Times newspaper, and thinking of venturing out to go shoe shopping. Thompson, her trusty chauffeur and part-time lover, entered bearing her breakfast tray. Together with the first delivery of letters and one telegram. She ripped it open and was astonished to find the message was an invitation to meet up with Wolstenholme.
"What a damned cheek!"
With a frown of arrogance, she hopped out of bed to telephone that renowned criminologist, Sexton Blake. Instead, his secretary informed her that he had been unavailable for the last two days. She sat back down lit her first cigarette of the day and pondered.
x
"Good evening, my delightful Mrs. Christie. And welcome to my new abode. Raven Manor was cruelly taken from me by the authorities, and I have been forced to scale down."
"You? It is you! Have you resurfaced after your sudden vanishing act? What on earth are you up to this time?"
Agatha had heard little of the jealous pulp fiction writer since he had lured her and Sexton Blake in false pretences. She made a gesture of contempt as he continued.
"The usual despicable deed. You have an unerring disposition to bring out my perverse side."
The man's cackling voice came over a public address system from all corners of the room. Agatha had walked just a few paces inside the building which stunk of glue and paste and which had a cool atmosphere. The thug who let her in had vanished and she was alone in the barely furnished room.
Wolstenholme! That conniving fiction writer had led her and Sexton Blake on a merry dance before the pair of sleuths had managed to turn the tables. What mischief was he up to now? Any scheme would no doubt include some rum do.
"What devilry are you up to now, Edgar?"
To say that Wolstenholme had fallen from grace was to put things mildly. He had published his stories for years until Christie came along with a whole new way of writing a crime novel. The only care he had in the world was to bring humiliation upon her.
"Listen carefully," he cackled again. "You must obey my every instruction from now on, The life of Mister Sexton Blake depends on your actions in the next sixty minutes. Thanks to my ingenuity, I administered chloroform and brought the noble detective here. I plan to give you several tasks to be completed in one hour, or it's the end for him.
"You wouldn't!" Said she in anguish.
"You have undoubtedly heard of the twelve labours of Hercules? I have fashioned three labours, tasks if you will, which you must complete within the next sixty minutes. Are you game?"
"You can't scare me, you evil miscreant. Bring it on."
"Splendid. Now you must do as I say, to the letter. On your left, you will see three doors. You will find your tasks behind each in turn. Now go to door number one."
Still somewhat bemused, although one hundred percent enthusiastic, the famous author entered through the first heavy door which immediately slammed shut on her. Inside she looked all about her and found herself in what appeared to be a square six by six cell. She ran her fingertips on the smooth surface of the door and walls which had no other features whatsoever. No handle, hinge, or frame. Even the interior light could not be seen as the bold female blinked in the harsh light.
"Now what?"
From behind her, she heard a door open slowly, and she peered into another, slightly larger square-walled room. She gasped at what was one of the most obscene-looking contraptions she had ever seen. In the middle of the room was a 'seat of love' or 'siège d'amour.'
"Good heavens!"
Christie was genuinely shocked. She had never seen such a thing before and stood wide-eyed at the large object. Made of wood, it measured 5.5" high x 6" long x 2-1/8" wide.
"Incredible, isn't it? This extraordinary and highly imaginative chair was originally designed for Edward VII, the Prince of Wales and later King of England, during his youthful escapades in Paris and made to measure by the prominent cabinetmaker Louis Soubrier in 1890. It was delivered to the Parisian bordello Le Chabanais for the future King's personal use. The design allowed the infamous playboy prince to amuse himself in numerous ways, including with two ladies at the same time. The original chair used by the prince is now owned by the great-grandson of the original 19th-century maker. This is a copy I had made with a few minor additions."
Agatha looked at the seat with a macabre interest. The legs of the love seat had been replaced by the arched blades of a rocking chair, and the seat now had two padded thigh rests with a leather six-inch dildo mounted in the centre. A thick handle protruded out in front of the pads and presumably made the rocker move backward and forward. The toy was ribbed and had a tapered head that glistened from having been coated in some kind of lubrication.
"It's self-powered and works just like a rocking chair. The only difference is every time you tilt to and fro the dildo fucks you. You can determine the speed and depth of penetration. I want you to ride it and bring yourself to orgasm. Once you achieve this I will let you proceed to the next labour. Now I am watching you closely, so no faking. As I said, time is of the essence so I wouldn't hang around if I were you."
"Wolstenholme!" came her stormy reply. "Are you some sort of sex pervert!"
"Hey now. I'll have you know I am quite the lady's man." He said with an aristocratic air. "I am quite conversant with females and their sexual pleasures. But I do like to watch I admit. Now get on with it. The clock starts ticking now."
A loud and ominous tick-tock echoed around the room and low ceiling as Agatha resigned herself to her fate. Only she could save the intrepid detective she knew well. She undressed, put her hands on her hips, and cocked her head. Her slender form was blessed with firm and pliant breasts and alabaster flesh. Her left hand wandered across her slightly rounded belly down to her sex which had curious reddish-brown curls of pubic hair. Her slender fingers traced inwards from her upper thighs to the softness of her mons and she inhaled through flared nostrils.
