The master of ceremonies, what an officious and odious term for this piss-ant lecture series, introduced me and stepped back as the audience politely applauded. I stood up from the folding chair, praying I wouldn't have to sit in it again when I finished my speech, and walked to the podium. It was wide, wooden lectern, the kind you used to see presidents and world leaders clutching during speeches. I resisted the urge to grip the edges and say, "My fellow Americans...," but only because I was supposed to be a grown-up today.
I placed my notes on the podium, adjusted the microphone and said, "Thank you, Captain Henderson." The mic didn't send a shriek of feedback through the speakers, and I was a little disappointed. If you can't count on the clichés, what can you count on? I made sure my notes were all present and in order, cleared my throat and said, "Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I would promise to keep it short, but considering this lecture hall is air-conditioned, you might appreciate a bit of dragging-on."
There were so polite laughs, and I cleared my throat. When I looked up again, my eyes were drawn to movement in the third row. It was all I could do not to react, to shift my attention to the next row back so I wouldn't stare. Even though I wasn't looking at her anymore, the flash image of her face was burned in front of me. Elizabeth, her dark hair done up in a prim and proper bun, sitting there with a pad and a pencil like a student, despite all the actual students being in uniform.
"Today, I'm going to talk about the unreliability of eyewitness testimony."
I am a police detective, asked by a former teacher to give a speech to a group of cadets from the academy. There were a few civilians in the audience, but there was absolutely no reason for Elizabeth, my partner, to be there. I had actually told her not to come. I managed to control myself enough to look at her again. She had on a pair of glasses I had never seen before, with thick black rims, and she wore a small, self-satisfied smile. Her tweed jacket and matching skirt made her look like a professor, but her white blouse was unbuttoned far enough that no one would confuse her for some stodgy bookworm.
"In... ahem, excuse me. In many instances, an eyewitness testimony could make or break a case. But, in most cases, conflicting reports could cause confusion and even muddy the investigation."
Her legs were crossed at the knee and she gently bobbed her foot in the air. I could see her high heels and felt a twinge below the belt. I loved when she wore skirts and heels. It wasn't always feasible on the job, but after work, at home, I had very many fine memories of her prancing around wearing a pair of stilettos, sheer stockings and nothing else. Remembering those nights and mornings when she had put on her little show made my cock stir in my trousers. I met her eyes, saw the mischievous glint there, and suddenly knew why she had shown up.
The little minx.
I continued on with my speech, thankful I had written it down exactly as I wanted to say it. All I had to do was keep referring to my notes and I shouldn't get lost. No matter what my treacherous partner might have up her sleeve.
I wasn't an accomplished public speaker, but I knew enough that I couldn't give the entire speech with my chin down, nose buried in the pages. So I looked up, scanned the crowd, made eye contact with a few, and then, against my better judgment, looked at Elizabeth. She shifted in her chair, tugged the hem of her skirt down a little farther and crossed her legs going the other way. She stopped pretending to take notes and brought her hand up to her face, thumb extended under her chin, pen between her index and middle fingers like a cigarette. She parted her lips and caught the cap of the pen between her teeth. I could see the pink flutter of her tongue working around the shaft of the pen and flashed back to that morning, waking up with my cock in her mouth, her fingers working my balls as I roused from slumber.
I was now undeniably hard, and I could only hope I calmed down by the end of the speech. All I had to do was avoid looking at Elizabeth for the rest of the time. Of course, if you cover your eyes from the Wolfman, you'll never know when he'll attack. Better to know what the monster is up to, because otherwise your imagination will fill in the blanks more horribly than reality ever could.
"One witness may describe a man of average height," I said, amazed my voice was still steady, "while another, taller witness may call him short. This is a matter of perspective and, while confusing, is not the biggest problem of eyewitness testimony. Everyone lives inside their own heads, and are products of their own experiences. Therefore, one person may see a blue van where someone else, with other problems occupying their mind, may remember a blue vehicle or, in one case I investigated, a Harley-Davidson motorcycle was seen as a brown Mustang convertible. Quite a disguise that bike had."
There were some polite chuckles. I looked at Elizabeth, now admitting I couldn't keep myself away from her. She was smiling, and her hand was now idly scratching the exposed part of her chest. Her fingers caught and twirled her necklace and I again had a mental flash of her. Her breasts cushioned against my thighs, her lips parted and her tongue lightly circling the head of my cock before she took it fully into her mouth.
'Take me, for instance,' I thought. 'If asked about this graduating class half an hour from now, I'll remember absolutely nothing other than the cock-tease in the third row.' Albert Einstein could have flown into the room in Amelia Earhart's lost plane, declaring that Hitler was alive and hiding out as a performer in a London burlesque show and I would have been useless as a witness.
"One famous example is the basketball game where several students were asked to keep track of fouls, errors, free throws, et cetera. Halfway through the game, a man in a gorilla suit ran out onto the court. After the game, the professor asked the students to describe the gorilla. The majority of them had no idea what he was talking about."
Elizabeth uncrossed her legs again, and this time put her knees together. She balanced her elbow on her knee and leaned forward, her shirt falling open a bit. I could see the shadows of her breasts, her cleavage and that soft, white skin I had licked just over two hours ago.
I remembered the first time we had sex. A long case, a victory party, too much beer and a congratulatory kiss that turned hungry within a matter of seconds. In her dim kitchen, at three in the morning, she had undone my pants and took my cock out. I groaned as I kissed her, her hand wrapped around my cock and tugging it to full mast. I turned her around and pushed her jeans down around her thighs, bent her over the kitchen counter. The next morning, I woke up worried, hung over and ashamed at what we had done, sure I had taken advantage of her and that she would at least ask for a reassignment, at most get my badge taken away.
Instead, she strutted out of the bathroom fully naked, pulled the blankets away and climbed on top of me. My cock slid easily into her pussy and she later admitted she had masturbated in the shower thinking of what we'd done. "But this time," she said, "I get to be on top."
Elizabeth was the mistress of the quickie. Down and dirty, quick and easy, she knew how to get it done. A hand job in the car, going down on her in the interrogation room, or her straddling my desk chair while I tried to do late-night paperwork, fucking me quickly before rising, wiping her thighs and casually saying, "I'll catch you at home, okay?"
I realized I had been talking mindlessly for the last five minutes. I looked down at my notes to figure out where I was. Thank God for my multitasking mind, the same mind that had solved the Spencer kidnapping while in the shower with Elizabeth. My body had been focused on my cock pressing against the crack of her ass, and my fingers had been working Elizabeth's clit, and suddenly my brain snapped the two impossible alibis together. "Oh my God. It was both of them."
