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Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 01

By: velvetpie



***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

He is here.

St. Marie-Thérèse's Orphanage sat silently in the dark night, its outbuildings huddled against the approaching storm, bricks gleaming dully in the moonlight. No owls hooted. No night animals howled. All was still save the bobbing speck of red that belonged to Jonathan Hawkins, the sole security man, taking his ten o'clock rounds and having his hourly smoke. Even the sight of him, wandering about the grounds did nothing to calm her jangled nerves nor had the large shot of whiskey that she'd imbibed minutes before. He's here!

Sister Bernadetta stared out into the darkness, shivering from a combination of anticipation and apprehension, her hands trying to coax goosebumps back down from her smooth shell of skin. Her mind went back over his terse note: Tonight will be our special night. Be alone at ten. S. So it was to be tonight. Tonight, she would give her virginity to her lover and tomorrow morning, she would leave the orphanage, heading for her new life as Mrs. Stephen Rathbun. The children would be upset at her departure and the other sisters angry at the breaking of her vows but God would forgive her. God would forgive love.

Her thoughts were lost deep in fantasy until a soft knock on the door interrupted. She half-turned, muttering, "Come in."

Young Sister Evangeline stepped in, her wimple long discarded and her glossy brown hair flowing loosely over her shoulders. "I'm heading off to bed, sister. Would you be interested in some tea or are you going to bed, too?"

"No, thank you, Evangeline." She said quickly. "I'm going to go to bed in a few minutes."

Sister Evangeline started to back out but hovered in the doorway for a moment. Something was wrong. Over the past few weeks, a change had come over Bernadetta. She'd always been regarded as the strict disciplinarian at the school but lately, she had seemed to be, to find a better word for it, detached. Or maybe a better word was distracted. She would breeze down the hall without so much as a word to the other sisters and would ignore the children who crowded around her for a word of care. She offered none.

"Um, Sister Bernadetta?" She stammered, uncertainly. "Are you feeling well?"

"Yes, dear child. I am well." Sister Bernadetta turned back to her study of the darkness, allowing only the reflection of the glass to witness her wistful smile. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason." Sister Evangeline said quickly, intimidated by the woman. "I'll see you at morning mass then?"

"Yes."

"Sleep well."

"Good night, sister."

Now that the last and probably only interruption of the night was over, she prepared for his arrival. She removed her nun's outfit, carefully arranging the dress over the arm of the chair so that it would not wrinkle and carelessly tossed the thin slip into the clothes hamper. Shaking with expectation, she opened her bottom dresser drawer and pushed aside layers of clean, folded sheets to expose something long hidden: a bright red teddy, fashioned of silk and lace that had been carefully secreted there. Bernadetta lifted it by its spaghetti straps, rose to her feet and quickly slipped her naked, perfumed body into it.

Perfect. A little lotion and a quick hair-brushing and everything was in place. Sister Bernadetta extinguished the light and laid down in the bed, her wavy black hair spread across the pillow like a blanket, her lips wet and glistening. He's here! She closed her eyes and waited for her lover to come.

* * * * *

R-r-r-ring!

Hercule Poirot ignored the tinny sound of the bell and instead focused his attention back on his lepidoptery collection. He had been successful in locating a Common Blue butterfly and it was taking all of his concentration skills to properly mount the new arrival. He moved the magnifying lens closer to the board, lifted the tweezers again and bent to conquer the task at hand.

R-r-r-ring!

"Sacre Bleu!" Frustrated by the interruption, Poirot jumped to his feet, striding to the door, ready to spew vitriol on the person whose impertinence had disturbed his precious private time. Instead, he was quite flummoxed to find his dear friend, Captain Hastings, nattily dressed in tails and bow tie, his eyes shining with mirth.

"Good evening, Poirot!" Hastings brushed past him, heading into the heart of the apartment and all but ignoring the look of incredulity on the Belgian detective's face. "I've got some good news!"

"Hastings, my friend, can't you see that I'm busy?"

The captain turned, taking in his friend's state of dress, noticing that he was in his evening house wear: comfortable pants, paisley smoking jacket, undercoat and loosely-tied ascot. "What, do you have someone here? A girl, perhaps?"

Poirot's nostrils flared in anger. "Hastings ... "

"I knew you weren't busy, old chap!" He grinned, taking a seat in the office area and making himself as comfortable as he had every day for the last ten-odd years. "Besides, you'll forgive me when you hear my exciting news!"

Poirot sighed, taking his seat and pushing the delicate butterfly aside, covering it in its tiny glass case and placing the lid back on his collection. "What is it, mon ami?"

"I have tickets for Joceline Tarrant."

Poirot's face remained impassive and unchanged compared to the unbridled frivolity that brightened the captain's features. "Yes. And who is this Joceline Tarrant?"

"You've never heard of Joceline Tarrant?" Hastings sat back, rubbing his chin in disbelief. "She's absolutely brilliant!"

"I know of no Joceline Tarrant, Hastings." Poirot fought the urge to quickly usher the captain out but forced himself to remain calm, convincing himself that the visit would only last a little longer.

"Well, it's just as well that I'm here. Go and get dressed, Poirot. Tonight, you will sit at the feet of an angel." Hastings grinned at the tickets that he held aloft. "Tonight, you will hear the incredible voice of Joceline Tarrant."

Poirot rubbed his temples, avoiding his friend's gaze. He really was not in the mood for this. Not tonight. He just wanted the companionable solitude of a book and his favorite radio program. "I am afraid that I cannot accompany you tonight."

"What? You have to!"

"No, my dear Hastings, I do not have to do anything."

"Poirot, you can't say no. Not tonight. You don't realize what you'll be missing."

"Yes, I do, Hastings. I shall be missing the vocal stylings of Joceline Tarrant."

"And you'll be missing the most fantastic show you've ever seen." Hastings stood, approaching the desk. "Come on, old chap. I know that your tuxedo is clean and pressed. I saw Miss Lemon bring it in yesterday." Hastings smiled, patting Poirot's hand. "Please?"

And so, an hour later, Hercule Poirot, immaculately turned out in one of his best tuxedos, found himself at a front row table at Club Tropic, impatiently awaiting the debut of Miss Joceline Tarrant. "I cannot believe that I let you talk me into coming here, Hastings."

"You won't be disappointed when you see her. She's a marvel!" Just then, the stage lights dimmed, blue lights filtering through cigar and cigarette smoke and bathing the stage in magic. "Here she is now."

Poirot turned his attention to the stage, his eyes searching the smoky darkness. A blue spotlight snapped on, targeting a woman in a sequin-laden dress, her partially-exposed back to the audience. She was not overly tall but the dress hugged her ample curves, sloping over a nicely rounded ass and hinting at long legs beneath. Her arms were raised above her head, clad in sequined gloves, the fingers unencumbered and moving freely. 

The strains of Cole Porter split the air as she turned and Poirot gasped. She was what they called 'coloured'. Her creamy chocolate skin seemed to sparkle in the light, her shoulder-length glossy black hair wavy and playing a poignant counterpoint to the sparkling dewdrop earrings that swayed from her earlobes. His eyes traveled down her flawlessly shaved armpits to her beautiful breasts that strained against the material and continued down to her shoes, her small well-formed toes pressing against thin leather straps.

"Mon Dieu." He breathed, unable to comprehend the beauty that was swaying just inches in front of him. Her deep brown eyes swept over the crowd, catching eyes here and there and her straight white teeth illuminated her already remarkable features. She sang two more Cole Porter tunes, then segued to Artie Shaw, Ella Fitzgerald and ended the set with Duke Ellington. Everyone in the packed room stood and applauded when the last set finished and she disappeared in a cloud of smoke, followed by her band mates.

"I say!" Hastings breathed, sipping his drink. "She's the cat's meow, all right."

"On that, we definitely agree, Hastings. Might there be a chance that we could have her join us, mon ami?"

Hastings' handsome smile stretched from ear to ear. "I'll see what I can do." With the jaunty gait of the British air force ex-captain that he was, he went in search of the mysterious beauty.

Poirot gave his friend a nod of appreciation and took out his cigar case, extracted a cigar and lit it, drawing the smoke in and trying to relax his nerves. Never before had he been so affected by a woman. Normally, he responded to women as he had been trained to, like they were the daughters of Eve, placed upon the Earth to give life and beauty. He had come close to engaging the thought of marriage but there was always something that kept him from making that final commitment. He had shared holding hands and stolen kisses but he'd never touched flesh nor consummated a relationship, something that seemed unseemly to him. 

But now ... this beautiful woman stirred feelings in him that he'd never encountered, feelings that reached past his immaculate exterior and threatened to cause chaos within. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hastings approaching with the woman and his mouth suddenly dried up. He wanted to reach for his crème de menthe but he was afraid that he would spill it in his anxious state. He uncrossed his legs and sat up a little taller, keeping his eyes averted.

"Poirot?" He looked up and stood immediately, his legs quivering like pudding. "May I introduce to you Miss Joceline Tarrant."

Joceline Tarrant was definitely a beauty. The shy smile she offered traveled to her dark eyes, giving her a sultry look that she unabashedly cast upon Poirot. She raised her hand and he took it, pressing a long kiss to her soft knuckles.

"Hercule Poirot, at your service, mademoiselle." He clicked his heels together as he lingered over her hand, lifting his eyes to hers. "Would you sit with us?"

"Uh, no, monsieur." She said nervously. "I cannot stay."

"Pish-posh!" Hastings exclaimed, pulling a chair out and standing behind it. "Sit and have a drink with us. We promise not to keep you overlong."

"Well, all right." Joceline accepted the seat, watching as both men sat after her and Poirot motioned for the waiter.

"I must say, Miss Tarrant, I had not heard of you before this evening but I have thoroughly enjoyed myself. Your interpretation of Cole Porter ... c'est magnifique!"

"Thank you, Monsieur Poirot, but I do not do it alone. My band is instrumental in my success."

Hastings guffawed at her statement. "That's a great joke! Instrumental in your success ... that's just perfect!"

Poirot threw a look of consternation towards his excited friend and turned his attention back to Joceline as the waiter approached. "What would you like?"

"A glass of champagne, please."

The waiter's uncomfortable glance traveled from Poirot to Joceline to Hastings and back to the detective. "Uh, yes, miss."

Satisfied, Poirot again turned to her. "What brings you to the Club Tropico?"

"Just a quick stop. I'm heading to Paris next week to join my friend, Josephine Baker. She's offered me a chance to sing in her show."

"Ah, Miss Josephine Baker." Hastings smiled knowingly. "Another extraordinary young woman."

Joceline returned his smile. "That she is. I feel so lucky to have a chance to sing for her."

"It is not luck, mademoiselle. It is talent."

"Thank you, monsieur. You are too kind."

"It is not kindness, mademoiselle. I merely speak the truth."

None of the table's occupants noticed that the club owner, Harold Messing, was approaching the table, his hands fisted tightly together, but Joceline caught sight of him. She stood immediately, prompting both Poirot and Hastings to rise hastily. "Monsieur Poirot?"

"Yes. I am Hercule Poirot."

The beefy man introduced himself, extending his hand and shaking with the detective and with Hastings. "You ordered a glass of champagne for Miss Tarrant?"

"Oui. The waiter, he just took the order ... "

"Well, there's a problem."

"A problem?"

"Poirot ... "

Poirot felt anger curdling his innards, sensing the acute embarrassment that Joceline was obviously feeling. He ignored Hastings' gentle warning, his Belgian ire seeking a ready outlet. "A problem, monsieur? We have no ... problem here."

"Well, there is a problem. We don't serve her kind in the main guest room."

The beauty of George Gershwin's music could not pierce the veil of silence that fell over the table and its occupants. Poirot fumed, his anger reaching to the core of his very being. "I don't believe I understand you, monsieur. You do not serve women?"

"We do not serve 'coloureds' in the main room, Mr. Poirot. Her kind has its own room in the back."

Seeing the anger in both men, Joceline spoke up, seeking to avoid confrontation. "Monsieur Poirot, Captain Hastings, thank you for the drink any way, but I must go."

"No, Miss Tarrant, don't leave on his account."

Joceline leaned close to Poirot, whispering, "If I don't leave, he might not pay us and my band needs the money." She placed her hand in his, her eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Thank you just the same, monsieur. I shall count this a lucky day to have met the great Hercule Poirot."

"And I to have met you, Mademoiselle Tarrant." He pressed another lingering kiss to her hand, slipping his card into her palm. "Please do not hesitate to call upon me if my services are required."

"Merci." Her husky thanks reverberated in his ears, long after she'd left the table. When he came back to himself minutes later, he turned to club owner Messing, arising and grabbing his gloves as he dismissed him with an angry look.

"Come, Hastings." Poirot's beady eyes burned with intense hatred. "It is time to take our leave."

* * * * *

A creak awoke her. She was a bit confused at first but then realized that she'd fallen asleep waiting for him. A shiver coursed through her body and she began to breathe more heavily, her heart thumping in her chest.

"Are you here?"

"Yes." Came his answer. "Close your eyes, my beautiful girl." She did as he requested, not objecting when he looped a swath of dark cloth around her head, covering her eyes. His hot breath burned where it touched her neck. "Have you been waiting for me?"

"Yes." Her voice sounded foreign, even to her own ears. She felt like a schoolgirl, on her first assignation. Nervous and unsure. "Do you like my nightie?"

"Oh, yes." His hands traced the silk-limned outlines of her lush body, moving over her heavy breasts and wide hips, dipping between her fleshy thighs to rub her soft mound, drawing a deep moan from her. "It's very naughty."

"I ... I thought you'd like it." She gasped softly, arching toward his touch.

"You are so beautiful, my sweet Bernadetta. You are pleasing to my eyes."

A rush of pleasure infused her skin with blood and she squirmed under his control, loving the heaviness of his hand. His lips pressed against hers and his tongue thrust inside, scouring her mouth. She quivered uncontrollably as his mouth and hands began a concerted assault of her untried body, lips and tongue searching her neck and collarbones and his hands roaming over her aching nipples and brushing against her awakened slit. Two of his fingers worked past the cotton and satin panel and slid into her pussy, making her body arch in response. Bernadetta had never felt anything like this before. Even though she'd masturbated, his fingers felt so different; an invader subjugating new territory and she completely surrendered without knowing what the consequences would be.

"Oh, yes, my love!" She bit back a groan as she came, her pussy squirting juices onto the pristine sheets. Her breath caught in her throat as spears of pleasure rippled through her body. She was recovering when she felt him crawl on top of her, straddling her body. "Yes." She whispered to him. "Yes."

His body covered hers, his heat permeating the sheer fabric of the teddy. Her hands moved across his strong shoulders and arms and weaved through the thick hair on his chest while she inhaled his heady musk. His teeth nipped at her ears, drawing the attention from her sodden slit. She felt his thick cock head rubbing against her fat nether lips, steadily pressing inward as it split them and gently moved inside. 

"Oh!" His broad tool slid upward, scraping the sides of her muscles until she was trembling with want and the mushroom head pushed against her hymen. He broke through it without warning and she yelped in pain, clenching around his prick until his movements caused her to forget the momentary discomfort. She could feel how deep inside her that he was and she rejoiced in the breaching. She was no longer a virgin, no longer a bride of God. She was soon to be Stephen's bride.

"Yes!" The word rushed out of her mouth with the first of his most powerful thrusts. She leaned backwards, enjoying his sensual attack, gasping at the feel of his hands on her sensitive breasts. His cock moved in and out of her hole, not pausing in its quest for her cum and receiving a healthy portion as she came and came again.

Finally, she heard his voice again, soft and close to her ear. "I'm going to cum inside you, my sweet Bernadetta. I'm going to make you a mother."

"Oh, yes!" She almost squealed in glee. Her life's wish was about to be fulfilled. He was going to make her a wife and a mother. She couldn't ask for more. Her hips splayed further to accept his thrusts and her mouth opened to his, welcoming his intrusion. When his hands encircled her throat, she thought nothing of it. But then ... the pressure, the pain. "Stop."

He didn't seem to hear what she was saying. His thumbs pressed harder at the base of her throat, cutting off her respiration. She thought to thrash but his body had hers pinned, his rock hard prick ruthlessly splitting her open. A cry of desperation erupted and was quickly exterminated in her throat and her hands arose, searching for purchase on his shoulders or chest and finding none. As the dark edges of the scarf began to fade into gray, then to white and nothingness, she felt him stiffen with release, tripping her own and filling her womb with seed that would never find fertile ground. A great sigh and a last breath escaped from her unresponsive body.

And so Sister Bernadetta of the St. Marie-Thérèse Orphanage found her greatest orgasm just as the light died in her eyes. She would not become Mrs. Stephen Rathbun this day. She would only find the marriage of sex and death and neither would console her soul.

Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 02



***** 
A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! 
*****

Felicity Lemon entered Poirot's office early, as she always did, neatly balancing his beloved tisane and several articles of mail that had arrived late yesterday. Her blue and white dress swirled gently around her ankles and the fine fabric molded to the contours of her thighs and ass as she set the tray on the desk.

"Ah, Miss Lemon! You are feeling well today?"

"Yes, Mr. Poirot. Right as rain."

"Very good." He accepted the cup and saucer from her with a smile.

"Have you seen this morning's paper?"

"No. Pourquoi?"

Miss Lemon unfolded the paper and laid it at Poirot's side. The page showed a photo of the delectable Joceline Tarrant, a stylish hat cocked on her head. The review that accompanied spoke volumes of the greatness of her talent and her obvious beauty. "You said you saw her last night."

"Oui, Miss Lemon. She was absolute perfection."

"That's high praise coming from you, Mr. Poirot." She pulled the shades aside, welcoming the weak English sunlight. "She must have been very good."

"That is, how you say, an understatement, Miss Lemon. Miss Joceline Tarrant was most probably the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life."

"Well, what about me?"

Poirot turned to his secretary, confusion furrowing his brow. "What about you, Miss Lemon?"

"You don't think I'm beautiful?"

"Mais oui, mademoiselle! I have always thought that you were beautiful!"

"Then why didn't you ever ask me out to dinner or to a show?"

"Miss Lemon, " Poirot took a sip of the tisane, quickly becoming frustrated with the conversation. "You and I have had dinner quite a bit … "

"But not in a romantic sense."

"Really, Miss Lemon!"

"Well, it's the truth, Mr. Poirot. You have never taken me to dinner and looked at me as if I was beautiful."

"Miss Lemon, when have you ever seen Poirot romantic?"

The elegant Miss Lemon turned to her employer, her expression showing that she was working through her memories, searching for an answer that matched his question. A small smile creased her lips when she came to the realization that there was no time that she'd ever seen him romantic. "You're quite right, Mr. Poirot. I have never seen you romantic."

"Thank you. Now will you kindly leave me in peace to enjoy my tisane?"

Poirot hated the smug smile that Miss Lemon carried with her but he knew it was better than telling her the truth. No woman wanted to hear that a man was not attracted to her. And Miss Lemon would not let him forget if she found out. The phone rang in the other room and he heard the muffled drone of Miss Lemon's voice as she answered. A few seconds later, she pushed the connecting glass panel aside.

"Miss Joceline Tarrant for you, sir."

Poirot choked, dropping his spoon onto his spotless blotter. He avoided Miss Lemon's questioning glare and daintily dabbed at his mouth. "Put her through."

"Yes, sir."

A deep breath, a calm smoothing of napkin. She's just another woman, Poirot told himself. When the phone rang, startling him, he knew those words just weren't true. He lifted the receiver with an unsteady hand. "Poirot."

"Monsieur Poirot? It's Joceline. Joceline Tarrant. We met at Club Tropico last night."

"Yes, yes, Miss Tarrant. I have not forgotten our meeting so quickly. How can I be of service to you?"

"Someone's trying to kill me, Mr. Poirot, and I need your help."

*****

Poirot arranged to meet her at the corner café, a nice, quiet place that had a number of booths inside and did not cater to the discriminatory undercurrent that flowed through the city. He arrived fifteen minutes early, his charcoal gray pants perfectly creased, his striped vest and cravat perfectly starched and his jacket perfectly pressed. His matching bowler had been steamed and blocked, his kid gloves oiled and the silver duck on the hilt of his walking cane gleamed in the bright sunshine.

He selected a booth near the rear of the establishment so that they could have privacy and settled in, checking the time on his pocket watch. Precisely thirteen minutes later, she entered the shop and café owner Henri dashed over, grasping both of her hands and bussing her cheeks while gushing shamelessly about her talent. She graciously accepted his praise and allowed him to be led to the booth where Poirot sat waiting.

Poirot was almost speechless at seeing her beauty in the radiance of the sunlight. The creaminess of her skin shone and he found himself drowning in the dark depths of her fathomless eyes. He swept his hat off, bowing low. "Bonjour, Miss Tarrant."

"Hello, Mr. Poirot."

He waited until she was comfortably seated and had ordered tea before speaking again. "I was very happy to hear from you again."

"I was happy to call you, Mr. Poirot, although I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Oui, mademoiselle. I wish this also." He gave her hand a gentle pat. "Now, tell me why you think someone is trying to kill you."

Joceline opened her purse and pulled out a hastily folded sheaf of paper. "This was left on my dressing table."

Poirot affixed his pince-nez on the end of his nose and took the paper, holding the edges gingerly as he pulled it open. "Was there an envelope?"

"No, sir."

"Please," His eyes flicked up to touch hers. "Call me Hercule."

"Then call me Lina. It's my nickname from my band mates."

Poirot smiled briefly, then returned his attention to the letter. In a bold, blocky script, words sprawled across the smooth face of the paper, declaring that Miss Joceline Tarrant would meet with death if she did not leave town immediately. "Have you received any such letters before, mademoiselle?"

Her lovely face crumpled and her gloved fingers extracted three other papers from the purse. "These have arrived at our last three stops."

"Which were?"

"Manchester, Nottingham and Birmingham. We stay here for another two days, then we play one night in Bournemouth before taking a ferry to Le Havre, then by train to Paris."

"And did you play any other places before Manchester?"

"Yes."

"And you received no letters at those places?"

"No."

"What about at your home?"

"No, sir." His eyes caught hers and she smiled. "No, Hercule. No letters there, either."

Poirot grunted in thought. "It is very strange that you receive them only here, in England, and not anywhere else." He examined the other letters carefully. "And all of them wish death upon you."

Joceline nodded. "I've received angry letters before but never a death threat and certainly never in this quantity. Being of color and all … "

"Yes, yes, I understand. The world is full of idiots, Lina. I hope you do not take stock in their ignorant words." Poirot observed the fleeting pain in her face and wished that he could personally strangle every person who had denigrated this exquisite woman with their words of hate and loathing.

"If I did that, Hercule, I wouldn't be sitting here with you."

The touch of his name on her tongue sent a shiver down his spine and brought a smile to his serious face. "Indeed you would not nor would I be graced with the company of such a beautiful woman."

Joceline felt the heat rise in her face and thanked the timely intervention of Henri, bearing their tea. She poured two cups, using the sieve, then dropped three sugar cubes into her own brew. Poirot indicated that he wanted the same and so she repeated the action, then slid it across to him. "Merci." She wanted to talk but she sensed that he was deep in thought, letting the machinations of his brain work through the problem before him. 

Joceline sipped her tea while observing the man that was Hercule Poirot. She had heard of him, as of course, the entire world had. The famous detective who never lost a case. He wasn't what you would call, handsome, but he was certainly charismatic. His head was shaped like an egg, elliptical with a dusting of black hair on top and a crown of the same dark hair tracing the circumference of his skull. His brows were thick as was his carefully sculpted mustache and pale pink lips completed a strong face.

"These were all written by the same person, even though he or she has tried to cover the fact up. They cannot fool Hercule Poirot. The little grey cells enjoy exercise such as this."

She nodded, still deep in her examination of the great detective. His body was mostly hidden by his extravagant finery but she could discern muscle beneath the fine cloth and his hands were well-manicured. Even the hairs on the backs had been trimmed. She found herself secretly wondering what it would be like to be worthy of Hercule Poirot's love. What kind of woman would be lucky enough to be the love of this fastidious man's life? Super-smart? Sexy? A combination of both?

"Did you hear me, Lina?"

Joceline caught his eyes and set her cup down. "I'm sorry, Hercule."

He seemed concerned. "Are you worried, mademoiselle?"

"Yes, I am." She knitted her fingers together, remembering the fear that she'd felt when she read the first one. "I may not be the right color or the right sex but I don't want to die."

The compassion in his eyes floored her and she fought the urge to throw herself into his arms. "Lina," His voice was soft, reaching not only her ears but her heart. "Seldom does a day go by in which I am not called a foreigner or a frog. These people do not realize that Hercule Poirot is Belgian, not French!" He calmed himself, wanting to apologize for the angry hiss but knowing that she understood. "You have been called much worse, I surmise, but nothing warrants the taking of your life." His gaze penetrated the tears that welled up in her eyes. "Hercule Poirot will make sure that no one takes your life, dear Lina. No one."

Joceline lowered her head, letting the tears fall into her tea, unable to stem the flow of emotion. It had been a long time since she'd felt that someone cared, really cared. "Thank you." She choked out.

"No." Poirot dropped his voice to a resonant whisper, capturing her hand and raising it reverently to his lips. "Thank you."

*****

Poirot had scarcely closed the door behind him when Miss Lemon darted out from her office, Hastings behind her.

"Mr. Poirot!"

"Yes, Miss Lemon?" 

"Chief Inspector Japp called for you. There's been a murder at the Saint-Thérèse Orphanage and he'd like you to get out there as soon as possible."

"And where is this place?"

"Brighton."

Hastings consulted the clock on the mantle. "We'd better hurry if we're going to catch the train."

*****

Chief Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard was rubbing his chin thoughtfully as he navigated the stairs of the orphanage, heading for a breath of fresh early evening air. The nuns of the Saint-Thérèse Orphanage were frightened, as well they should be. Murders of this sort weren't run of the mill in rural Bath and certainly didn't occur to respectable older ladies like Sister Bernadetta. Until his lads could figure out what had happened, all of their lives were at stake.

He was particularly perturbed that a sister named Lilia was not allowing him access to the scene because she said that Sister Bernadetta was in an ‘ungodly state' and that it would be disrespectful to lay eyes upon her until the local priest could correct the problem. Japp's problem was that he didn't want the priest to ‘correct' anything. This was a murder and ‘ungodly state' or not, it was a crime scene and should not be touched by anyone except members of the Scotland Yard. 

Since no local priest could be found, Japp requested the aid of his long-time friend and sometime rival, Hercule Poirot, to act as the intermediary. Sister Lilia had heard of Poirot's reputation and was somewhat comforted by the fact that he was unmarried and showed no signs of entering that lawful estate.

He growled in frustration, scaring a young constable and contemplated following him until the hack drove up, Poirot and Hastings in the passenger seat. "Well, it's about time that you showed up!"

Poirot stepped out of the vehicle and gave a quick, short bow. "Good evening, Chief Inspector Japp." He ignored the police man's irritated look and made room for Hastings to disembark. "I understand that there's been a murder."

"Yes. A female. Name's Sister Bernadetta."

"One of the nuns?" Hastings queried, casting his eye about the scenery. "That's wretched!"

Japp nodded in agreement. "Damned sisters won't let me and my boys in … "

"Yes, yes. Unless the story has deviated from the one you told Miss Lemon, I completely understand the situation. Let us proceed."

Chief Inspector Japp led the way down a blued flagstone path, heading towards a tall lady who regarded them with watchful eyes, her arms around a small boy. "Sister Lilia?"

Her imperious eyes turned toward Poirot with seeming recognition. "You are Hercule Poirot?"

"Oui, madam. Hercule Poirot, at your service." He said with a flourish and a touch to his hat brim. 

She flew down the steps, launching her bony frame into his arms, suddenly sobbing uncontrollably. "Oh, Mr. Poirot! She's dead! Sister Bernadetta is dead!"

It took several minutes before Poirot was able to peel the inconsolable Sister Lilia off of him and escort her into orphanage, placing her in the sitting room. Another nun, who introduced herself as Sister Evangeline brought a glass of water and a cool cloth for Sister Lilia's face.

"Sister Lilia, I must leave now … "

"No!" Her big blue eyes flew open and she grasped Poirot's forearm in a death grip. "You mustn't leave!"

Poirot shushed her gently, covering her cold, bony hand with his thick, warm one. "I must view the scene so that the Chief Inspector can perform his duties. Remember, dear one, this is why you asked for Poirot." He gave her a soft smile at her nod. 

"I will stay with her, sir." Sister Evangeline piped up, taking her hand from his arm and curling her fingers against her palm.

"Thank you, mademoiselle." Poirot laid his hat and gloves on the side table, carefully balancing his cane against it as well. "Come, Hastings. Let us be done with this."

Japp led the way to Sister Bernadetta's room, located in the rear of the main wing. Each nun had her own room and several peeked out from behind cracked doors, watching the elegantly-dressed Poirot stride down the hall and gingerly open her door.

"If you would be so good as to wait outside, Chief Inspector."

Japp growled angrily. "Well, just don't be too long. We've already been waiting long enough." Poirot nodded and stepped into the room, Hastings close behind. 

"Good God, Poirot!" Hastings exclaimed as they entered the chamber, Poirot quickly closing the door behind them. "She's … "

"Naked? Yes, mon ami. I surmised as much when Japp said that she was in an ‘ungodly state'." Poirot approached the bed, yanking his pince-nez out of his pocket and putting them on.

"Well, that's definitely ungodly!"

Poirot heard the edge in his friend's voice. "If her nakedness bothers you so much, Hastings, you have my permission to leave. I can conduct the investigation alone."

Hastings swallowed, clearly uncomfortable. "No, no. I think I can manage."

"Good man." He returned his attention to the body. Sister Bernadetta lay sprawled across her bed, her stiff purple tongue protruding from her open mouth and a satin lingerie article bunched around her waist. Her unseeing eyes were wide open as were her legs, the knees up and slightly bent. 

Hastings went to the window, checking the latches. "All of the latches are still in place so whoever it was, she let him in."

"Him, Hastings? How do you know it was a ‘him'?"

"Well, that's obvious, Poirot. From her position, it looks as if she had sex with someone."

"Indeed, mon ami." Poirot carefully checked the sheets, then moved her head aside, exposing her neck.

"I say!"

"The marks of someone's hands." Hastings nodded in agreement, his eyes drawn to the livid purple bruises. "And here. Look at her cheeks and her eyes. See those veins? Those, my friend, are called petechiae. They are the by-product of strangulation."

"So she was strangled."

"Oui, and that makes it all the more important that the killer is found."

"Why is that?"

"Strangulation is a passionate way to murder someone. It requires the murderer to have physical contract with his victim. It is much more intimate than using a gun or a knife."

"Wow." Hastings paused, deep in thought. "I didn't think about it like that."

"No, mon ami, I wouldn't have expected you to." Poirot turned his scrutiny towards the rest of the body, pausing to admire the dusky splendor of her rose-colored nipples against the alabaster of her dead flesh. "A murder like this implies not only intimacy but most likely, personal knowledge."

Hastings nodded. "Yes! That would explain why the window locks are in place."

"Exactly." He continued in his perusal, scanning the flat abdomen and the long legs connected to wide, child-bearing hips. Poirot sighed, knowing that these hips would bear no children and moved between the legs. Her pussy was a darker rose color than her nipples but no less beautiful. The hair had been trimmed back and the thick lips were splayed open, coated with a dried milky liquid. More of the creamy fluid, mixed with what looked like blood, was still slowly trickling from her open hole. "Interesting."

"What's that?"

"Sister Bernadetta was a virgin."

"How do you know?"

"The blood, Hastings. Look here."

"Uh, no, thanks. I'll just take your word for it." Hastings averted his eyes, examining the room's objects in an attempt to seem interested.

"It all makes sense." The detective arose, then carefully pulled a sheet over the naked body. "Sister Bernadetta was most probably killed by her lover."

"But I thought that nuns … "

"Yes, Hastings. You thought correctly. But it seems that the good sister was about to leave the order."

"How do you know that?"

"Her luggage." Hastings followed the direction of Poirot's eyes and saw two large suitcases and a smaller valise perched atop it. "According to Japp, Sister Bernadetta had been in the order for nearly 16 years. Now what would cause such a devout follower to suddenly cast everything aside?"

"Love." Hastings said quietly.

"Precisement. Only the promise of love would cause her to think differently about the vows she had taken." He looked down at the body. "And only the promise of love would cause her to give away the most important gift a woman can give to a man." Poirot gripped the door knob, pausing to cast another look about the large, airy room, his hard eyes tinged with sadness. "It is a pity that the love she craved, she did not find."

Hastings glanced over at the body as well, following the detective from the room, his voice husky with misery. "Indeed."



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 03



***** 
A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! 
*****

"Are you sure?" Poirot surveyed the office of the late Sister Bernadetta, his gaze sweeping over a mess of loose papers, overturned chairs and staggered file cabinet drawers. Someone had ransacked the room, but good. "There is nothing missing?"

"That's what Sister Evangeline tells me." Japp related how the young sister was Sister Bernadetta's assistant and had personal knowledge of everything in the office and that nothing had been taken, despite the obvious search. "She also told me that she thinks that the mess was caused by anger, not by the person looking for something because the files were specifically targeted."

"What kind of files?"

"Personal files that Sister Bernadetta kept on the children that are placed here."

"Including adoptions?"

"Adoptions, deaths, runaways … she was very meticulous in her record-keeping."

Poirot paused in thought. "And you are certain that nothing is missing?"

"Sister Evangeline says so."

"I see." He glanced at the young woman that was still attending to Sister Lilia. "I'd like to speak with her."

"Go ahead. We've already interviewed her."

"Merci." Poirot and Hastings left the chief inspector to the business of crime detecting and entered the sitting room, where the two women sat, murmuring in low voices. Sister Lilia looked up at his appearance and sat forward on the chair.

"Is she … "

"She has been taken care of. Chief Inspector Japp personally supervised the removal … " He hesitated, searching for words that would not be insensitive toward the young ladies. "He personally supervised her care."

"So she's really dead." The words sounded more like a statement than a question, as if the young nun was trying to convince herself that the murder had not occurred. "Mr. Poirot, who would want to kill her?"

"I do not know but rest assured, Hercule Poirot will find out."

"Thank you so much, Mr. Poirot. Your kindness … " Tears restricted Sister Evangeline's throat and she forced the words out. "Your kindness means so much to us."

"It was my pleasure to be of service to you." He smiled. "Sister Evangeline, may I ask you a few questions?"

"Yes. Yes, ask me anything. I'll do anything to help."

"Did you go into Sister Bernadetta's room?"

"Yes, sir. Lilia asked me to be a witness."

"Was there anything out of order?"

"Out of order, sir?"

"Yes. Was anything out of its usual place?"

Sister Evangeline's face pursed in deep thought. "No. Not that I know of."

"Bon. Now, did Sister Bernadetta have any visitors last night?"

Sister Evangeline dropped the tissue in her hand and the ever-observant Poirot caught the tap that she gave Sister Lilia's foot, perhaps warning her fellow nun to keep quiet. "No, sir." She met his eyes steadily. "We are not allowed to have visitors past six o'clock and never, ever in our rooms."

"I see." Poirot glanced quickly at Hastings to see if he, too, had noticed the action but sighed when he saw that the captain was more interested in the loveliness of the ladies. "And yet, someone did visit her last night, someone that she knew." Poirot watched the ladies fidget for a moment before continuing. "Can you tell me where Sister Bernadetta was planning to go?"

"What?" Sister Lilia sat up at this. "Who said she was planning to go some where?"

"The luggage in her room, mademoiselle. Two large cases and a small valise." Poirot very closely watched their reactions. "Did you not see them when you went into the room?"

"I guess not." Sister Lilia's voice was shaky now and her rosy cheeks had gone pale. "When I saw her lying there like that … I just ran."

"That is most understandable, young lady. Murder is very unsettling." He paused to let his words have weight. "I am told that Sister Bernadetta had been here for almost 16 years."

"Yes, sir." Sister Evangeline answered.

"Did she ever have any ‘special' visitors in all that time?"

"'Special'?"

"Gentlemen friends." Poirot defined and immediately, Sister Lilia's face turned red.

"Absolutely not! We pride ourselves on being wives of God, Mr. Poirot, not whores!"

"I did not mean that … "

"Why is it that men can't believe that we have made the choice to eschew sins of the flesh?"

"Mademoiselle, I seem to have offended … "

"Yes, you have!" Sister Lilia shot up out of the chair, her nostrils flaring and her face growing redder and redder. "We are servants of the Lord, not floozies!"

With that exclamation, she stomped off, leaving Poirot, Hastings and Sister Evangeline to stare at her retreating form. The young lady stood, bringing the gentlemen to their feet. "I should go after her."

"Yes, Sister Evangeline. If I have offended you or Sister Lilia, I am most heartfully sorry."

"I accept your apology, Mr. Poirot. I know that you didn't mean anything by it. It's just that Lilia … " She looked down the hall, edging toward the doorway. "That's a very touchy subject for her."

"Ah." Poirot collected his hat, gloves and cane from the side table, turning again to her. "Thank you for answering my questions, Sister Evangeline. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

The young woman didn't hesitate to hear Hastings' parting salutation. She hitched up her uniform and dashed down the hallway, intent on catching up with the other young nun. Hastings released a huge lungful of breath, watching her leave.

"Dashed bad luck with that, Poirot."

The detective shrugged. "Young women." He pulled on his gloves as they headed toward the front door. A large rosewood plaque with several individual bronze plates was attached to the wall, each plate bearing a name etched in its polished surface. 

"What's this?"

"A list of contributors, Hastings. Men and women who have given money to the orphanage to ensure its future."

"I see."

Poirot read over each name as he seated his second glove. "We have done our duty here, Hastings. It is time to go home."

*****

He wasn't sure if he'd be there on time so he quickened his step, letting his cane tap lightly on the street as he strode to the club. He was distressed to see people leaving and knew by that sign that Joceline's last set was over. Merde! He silently cursed, stepping into the establishment and searching the stage. The instruments sat quietly, bathed in smoky light and Poirot's heart dropped into his chest.

"I have missed her." He murmured, sitting heavily at a table near the stage. A waiter appeared at his elbow and he ordered a drink, staring out across the empty stage, recalling his first vision of her.

He was surprised to find that his penis was hardening under the cover of the tablecloth as he thought about her. Her smooth brown skin and the way her breasts moved beneath the sequined cloth … 

"Excuse me." The waiter set his drink down. "Are you Mr. Poirot?"

"Yes."

"Miss Tarrant has asked that you join her in the rear room."

Poirot's smile lit the room. "Excellent! Lead the way."

Joceline had seen him enter the club and couldn't decide whether to faint or to jump for joy. Instead, she chose a table in the ‘coloured' section, ordered a drink and asked the waiter to deliver a message to him. She wasn't sure that he was there to see her but she had to know. When she saw him following Arthur, her heart skipped a beat, especially when his eyes connected with hers.

"Joceline."

"Hello, Hercule." He kissed her knuckles but did not release her hand as they sat. He noticed that she looked down at their connected hands and smiled. "I'm glad you came."

"I'm sorry that I'm late. I had to travel to Brighton on business." Her eyes were so warm, so smoky and so warm. They held him tightly, making him feel warm all over and causing his cock to harden. "I was worried that I'd missed you."

"You nearly did. I was on my way out when I saw you."

"And you stopped?"

"Yes." He leaned closer and she could see the darkness of his eyes. "I stopped."

"Why?"

"Because I wanted to talk with you." Joceline felt the heat that radiated from him and shivered at the gentle stroke of his fingers on hers.

"Then I am glad that you stopped for me." Poirot gazed at her for a moment more before releasing her hand and sitting upright in the chair. Such intimacy was not natural to Hercule Poirot and he was unsure of how to proceed. If he listened to his heart, he would take her hand and gently woo her. If he listened to his cock, he would take her home and find out what was under that cloud of black silk.

"Is something wrong?" Joceline ventured, wondering why he had withdrawn his hand. Maybe she had been incorrect in her thinking about the celebrated detective.

"No, Lina." He took a sip of his drink, staring into the glass for a moment. "I … I … May I be honest with you?"

"Yes, Hercule."

"I have known a great many women, Lina, but not one has affected me like you have. I dream about you, I spend the day thinking about you … and this is not something that Hercule Poirot has ever dealt with before." He paused, looking up into her lovely features. "So you see, I am at a loss as to what I should do next."

Joceline's smiled excited him almost as much as the shy way that she reached across and grabbed his hand, stroking the plump back gently. "This was a good start."

Poirot trembled with relief and slipped into easy conversation with the beauty. She told him of her life in the United States and how she had come to Europe searching for a better style of life. He found himself engulfed in her struggle, reliving her hardships and reveling in her triumphs, loving the fact that she was entrusting him with her history. And he listened closely, attentively, his hands enclosing hers and his fingers stroking her velvet flesh.

Joceline checked the time on the wall clock and felt her spirits dip down. "I hate to end this lovely evening, Hercule, but I must get going. I have an early train to catch."

"I am sorry to hear that, mademoiselle."

"I have been asked to sing at Duke Wilmouth's Fall Gathering. We leave tomorrow morning."

"Duke Wilmouth? Duke Jarrett Wilmouth?"

"Yes, do you know him?"

"Mais oui! I am also traveling to his Fall Gathering. I attend every year."

Her smile made his cheeks heat with blushed blood. "That's wonderful." Her eyes met his. "Then maybe we can see each other there."

"There is no maybe about it. If you would permit, I should like to be your date for the Ball."

Joceline sighed heavily. "I'm afraid that I won't be going. I haven't been invited."

"Well, that won't be a problem. I shall personally speak with Duke Wilmouth … "

"No, Hercule. You misunderstand." She allowed her words to hang between them. "In fact, it might be hard for us to spend time together."

Poirot's nostrils flared with the anger he felt. This discrimination was so stupid, so unnecessary. "Then if you know how Duke Wilmouth feels, why did you accept his invitation?"

"Because my band can use the money."

"Even though it comes from someone with his views?"

"Hercule, the world is not perfect. We still need money to survive."

Poirot bent his head in understanding. "Yes, mademoiselle. The world is not perfect." When he raised his head, a devilish smile was on his lips. "But I shall make it perfect."

Joceline grinned. "And just how do you intend on doing that?"

"You and I … we shall have our own Ball."

"Our own Ball?"

"Yes. A grand Ball that will be attended only by you and me."

"That sounds wonderful, Hercule, but how … "

"Leave it to Hercule Poirot. I shall make it so, Lina."

"And I'll look forward to it, Hercule." Joceline stood, bringing him to his feet. "And now I must leave or I will look the worse for wear tomorrow."

"Dear Lina, I cannot see how you could ever look worse for wear."

"You're very sweet." Again, her shy smile inflamed his face and made his cock tingle. "Until tomorrow then, dear Hercule." Her soft lips pressed against his heated cheeks once and again, letting her mouth linger against the smooth, perfumed surface of his skin. A tremble snaked through him and when she pulled back, he saw that she knew. He only hoped that she felt the same.

Joceline could scarcely breathe, gazing into his warm eyes. It took all that she had to remember that they were in a public place, that they were in the ‘coloured' room and that many discerning eyes were cast upon them. Poirot's reputation could suffer from association. "Good night."

"Bon nuit, Lina." Poirot watched her leave, his eyes drawn to the sultry sway of her hips and the chocolate nape of her neck. "A demain."

*****

The chapel bell rang, signaling that it was midnight and the man dressed in black slid neatly into the shadows, waiting for the night watchman to pass. His heart was pounding in his chest, more from outright anger than fear. He knew the hallways of the orphanage as well as he knew that back of his hand and he had spent most of the day following the young sister so that he now knew which room she occupied. Little cunt! He gritted his teeth, grinding them together as Jonathan passed, trailing sweet pipe smoke in his wake.

Once the man was out of sight, he edged out, clinging to the dark recesses as he picked his way down the hallway to the side stairs and softly made his way up. Sister Evangeline's door was on the left at the very end and he grasped the knob, slowly turning it and easing the door open. The young woman was sleeping soundly, her nearly naked body atop the sheets. He licked his lips as he silently approached. Perfect.

Her eyes flew open when his hand clapped across her mouth and he quickly straddled her body, pinning her arms down with his knees. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes, drifting down toward her ears. "Hello, Sister Evangeline. I've come for a little visit. You don't mind, do you?" The frightened young woman whimpered loudly, trying to buck him off. "Now, if you lie quietly, I'll take my hand off your mouth and if you make any noise, I'll slit your throat." Her body immediately went still and he lifted his hand from her mouth. "Now, you know what I'm here for, don't you?"

Her voice was small and breathless with fear. "N-No."

"Yes, you do, dear Evangeline. Bernie was a very careful record-keeper and you can imagine surprise when I was unable to locate a specific file." He sat back a bit, rubbing himself against her abdomen and sighing as he felt his prick harden. "And I started thinking about who she might have given it to for safe-keeping."

"I don't have … "

"And then, I started wondering. If she could entrust someone with that file, perhaps she entrusted someone with my secrets."

Evangeline's eyes grew large and she shook her head. "No! No, I don't know anything!"

"Why don't I believe you," He reached down and opened the top button on her nightgown. "Dear Evangeline?"

"I don't know why." Her voice shook with terror. "But I don't know anything! She wouldn't talk to any of us!"

"Well, she talked to someone because that file is gone."

"M-Maybe she talked to Sister Lilia."

"No." He popped another button open, exposing more of her chest. "Lilia's too much of a bitch. If Bernie had told her, she would have contacted me by now, wanting money." Another button slipped free and he spread the gossamer material aside, gazing raptly at her small breasts, topped with rosy nipples. He let a fingertip lazily trace its outlines, smiling when it hardened under his command. "No, it had to be you."

"Please. Stop that."

"Can't do that, Evangeline. Your body's calling to me." He caught the nipple between two fingers and tweaked it, drawing a sharp cry from her. "Can't you hear it?"

Her eyes squeezed shut, the tears escaping from the sides. "Oh, God."

If he heard her whisper or was moved by it, his actions didn't show it. "Your body is begging for a good, hard fucking." He moved his hips up and back slowly, letting her feel the hardness of his bulge. Her eyes flew open again, true terror written in their depths. "Oh, yes. You feel that, don't you?"

"Please." She whimpered, half-slobbering and half-sobbing. "Please don't."

His hands moved from seduction to seductive, slowly unbuckling his belt and pulling the zipper tab down. The purple head of his rock-hard cock leapt out, surrounded by a thick forest of hairs and he reached inside, adjusting himself just enough so that his balls were a bit freer and more of the stalk stretched out. A large crystalline drop of pre-cum parted the wide slit, growing larger and larger until it threatened to drip. He leaned forward and let the bead drop onto her lips, then used the fat mushroom cap to spread it about, glossing her lips.

"Lick your lips and taste me."

"No." When she opened her mouth, he pressed the head in, forcing her to taste even more of him. She struggled for a moment, then stopped with a sob when she recognized the menace in his eyes. 

"Suck me." Long seconds passed by before she let her tongue begin its exploration. Her unpracticed tongue sent chills down his spine, making him shiver and he was surprised that a novice could make him feel this way. She became a little bolder, running her teeth around the fluted edge and following with her tongue. "You can't be a beginner."

She released his cock with a pop. "No, I've never done this before."

"Yes, you have. How could you make me feel like I'm ready to pop off already?" Her eyes showed her disgust at the thought of that. He pulled his prick away and moved to one side, ripping the gown from her body, putting his hand back over her mouth as she screamed. "I want that file, Evangeline. It's as precious to me as something you have." His hand slid down the inside of her creamy white flesh, finding her dry slit and roughly massaging it. Her muffled whimpers filled the room. "Something I'll take unless you give me that file."

Her struggling diminished, indicating her acquiescence. He lifted his hand, rubbing his cock at her unresponsive pussy. "I'll give you the file." She sobbed. "It's under the blotter on my desk."

"I knew you would." His cock rubbed again, the pre-cum lubricating the dry lips and he smiled when her body unconsciously responded. "Just like I knew that you wanted this." He pressed the head of his cock against her pussy and she began to sob.

"No, please! I don't want this! I'll give you the file! Don't take my virginity!"

He pushed his black jeans down, releasing one leg and giving him total freedom. "I know you will. You should have given it to me when I asked the first time." He used his knees to pin her thighs open, his cock pulsing in anticipation. "Now it's too late."

"NO!"

The pillow he held over her head kept her scream from being heard as he pressed the head in, then followed with the thick stalk, breaking her hymen in the process. Her body bucked against him but he only laughed, thoroughly enjoying the fight that she was putting up as her actions caused his cock to travel farther into her body. He laughed, feeling the mixture of blood and lubrication coating his prick and he began to move inside her, hissing in pleasure at the tightness of her untried pussy.

He pressed the pillow down harder, thrusting with animalistic vigor. The more he pounded her quim, the more juice came out, greasing his passage into her. It wasn't long before a tingling sensation traced the length of his spine and he was exploding inside her sugar walls, flooding her pussy with his cum. When he came back to himself, he realized that the girl was dead. He tossed the pillow aside. All the better. He would have had to kill her anyway.




Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 04



***** 
A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! 
*****


Hercule Poirot found himself humming as he dressed early the next morning. Miss Lemon had arranged for tickets for Hastings and himself and they were due at the station in just under an hour. Hercule had awakened at the crack of dawn, unable to contain his joy and had steamed for an hour, scrubbed, trimmed his mustache and now regarded his visage with a critical eye. He was surprised to find that his stomach was twisted into knots but he welcomed the change with a guilty smile.

"Mr. Poirot, your breakfast and your money are ready."

"Thank you, Miss Lemon." He called back and entered his office where Hastings sat, wolfing down a platter of kippers, eggs and potatoes. "Hungry, Hastings?"

"Always when Miss Lemon cooks." He stuffed his mouth with a large potato and bit down, laughing as butter shot out and dripped down his chin. "Her potatoes are heavenly."

"I can see." Poirot smiled, stirring his tisane, then used the edge of his knife to crack his egg, spooning the creamy white and gold innards onto toast. Both men ate steadily until their plates were empty and both cleaned their dishes in the small kitchen sink. 

"Miss Lemon, that was outstanding. Thank you very much."

"Yes, thank you!" Hastings chimed in.

Miss Lemon smiled, standing by the door and checking their suitcases. "You're very welcome. I don't often fix breakfast for you but I thought that since you had to catch the train so early, you'd rather eat at home than face questionable fare in the club car."

"You are so right!" Hastings impetuously gave Miss Lemon a kiss on the cheek and her fair features flooded with color. She handed Poirot a wad of notes, which he organized and thrust into his gold money clip and slipped into the pocket of his jacket. "I say! That's an awful lot of money to be carrying, Poirot!"

Poirot merely smiled. He had an idea in mind; an idea that had to do with Joceline and he was determined to see it through to fruition. "Do not fret, mon ami. No one would dare to rob Hercule Poirot."

Hastings looked to Miss Lemon, who shrugged her shoulders in reply. The captain hefted the two heavier cases and Poirot grabbed the remaining two and both headed to the elevator. "We shall see you on Monday, Miss Lemon."

"Have a good time!"

The hack driver helped them with their bags and in no time, they were headed to the train station. Tickets were issued and Poirot and Hastings stood in the queue, waiting to embark. Looking down the platform, the detective saw the smiling face of Joceline Tarrant, standing in the ‘coloured' queue with her band members. She raised a blue-gloved hand in his direction, her eyes warm.

"Look, Hastings. Miss Tarrant!"

When they reached the compartment, Hastings had been filled in as to Poirot's relationship with the famous singer and he sat back, a grin on his face. "Well, well!"

Poirot could only smile, removing his hat and gloves and stowing them. "She is a most beautiful woman."

"That she is." Hastings sat upright. "Why don't we go visit her?"

"On the train? No, Hastings. We must wait."

"Why?"

"A visit from us may make her journey unbearable." Poirot set his walking cane aside. "Let us send her and the band a bottle of champagne and await a visit when we reach Duke Wilmouth's estate."

Hastings again grinned. "Here, here!"

*****

Chief Inspector Japp watched as his constables removed the body of yet another nun from the Saint-Thérèse's Orphanage. The modus operandi was the same, excepting strangulation for cause of death. Sister Evangeline had been smothered to death and her ripe body bore the same bluish tinge as that of Sister Bernadetta and her pussy was filled with semen. Sister Lilia had happened upon the crime scene and had phoned Japp immediately. As with the other murder, nothing was found to be missing from Sister Evangeline's room and no obvious clues pointing to the murderer were found. 

Japp growled in frustration and pounded his hand against the wall. The nearest constable, a young man of two months named Nathan, came running over, his face stricken with fear. "Are you all right, Chief Inspector?"

"No." He took a deep breath, paying attention to the loading of the body and plugging his ears against the screech of the siren. "Call Poirot."

*****

Duke Wilmouth's estate was exquisite.

Two busloads of visitors trundled from the station to the estate, bouncing down the gravel-covered driveway and heading toward the centuries-old Tudor buildings. A butler in a starched black uniform and a woman in a smart white suit stood at the entrance, her dark hair twisted into a severe bun that matched the planes of her pinched face. Hastings and Poirot allowed the women to disembark first before joining the queue and stepping into a bit of English history.

"Amazing!" Hastings exclaimed, gazing at the well-kempt Tudor architecture. "Just beautiful!"

"Indeed." Poirot stepped up to the uniformed gentleman, touching his hat brim in acknowledgement. "I am … "

"Yes, Hercule Poirot. Nice to make your acquaintance, Mr. Poirot." The butler shook his hand briskly. "I'm Harold Chivers, headman to Duke Wilmouth. On his behalf, I would like to welcome you to Beauford Estates."

"Merci. May I introduce my associate, Captain Hastings?" While Hastings and Chivers shook hands, Poirot's attention turned to the rear bus and a grin of recognition creased his features when he located Joceline at the head of the queue, speaking with the suited lady. The suited lady said something curtly and turned her back on Joceline. The black woman turned to her band mates, spoke a few words then gave them a tremulous smile. Her head raised and their eyes met and she glanced back at the ground, her smile knowing. 

"Glynnis is just inside and will show you to your rooms. Neville will deliver your bags in a few minutes."

"Merci." Poirot touched his hat brim again and stepped into the cathedral-like entryway, smiling as he remembered the tasteful surroundings. Murals of Italian-heritage covered the walls, making the safe quite airy and beautiful. Glynnis introduced herself almost immediately, excited by the fact that the great Hercule Poirot was once again in residence at Beauford Estates.

"I'm so glad to see you back another year, Mr. Poirot, and you, Mr. Hastings."

"Thank you, madame. Captain Hastings and I are very happy to be invited back to this beautiful place. Tell me, how is Duke Wilmouth?"

"Over the moon!" She intimated, hefting the heavier of their bags, much to the consternation of both men and headed for the stairs. "'is son, Lord Wesley is set to run for a seat in Parliament this year."

"Oh, yes! I remember reading something about that. The duke must be very proud."

"Indeed ‘e is, Mr. Hastings!" Poirot rolled his eyes at her lack of using his friend's title. "'e's over the moon, ‘e is. ‘e's been preparing the young lord for this moment ‘is entire life and now … " Glynnis threw the doors open to the pair of suites, still gossiping about the duke and Lord Wesley and dropped their suitcases in the sitting room. "I expect that ‘e's going to announce ‘is candidacy at the Ball."

"That will certainly make for a festive mood." Hastings smiled, grabbing his satchel and heading for one of the rooms. "I'll be back in a minute."

Poirot pounced on the opportunity for a bit of privacy with Glynnis. "Miss Glynnis, can you tell me where Miss Tarrant and her band's rooms are located?"

Glynnis' face lost its blustery happiness and she looked down at the carpet, her cheeks burning with shame. "They've been placed in the rear estate ‘ouse, sir."

"I see." Poirot noticed her discomfort and patted her hand in a fatherly manner. "You have nothing to fear from me, madame. I, too, despise discrimination."

"It's not fair, Mr. Poirot. Miss Tarrant and ‘er lads were nice as pie to me and the boys. She even gave us a big tip!"

"You are right, madame, it is not fair, but this is the duke's estate and we must follow his rules." Poirot placed his arm around her large shoulders. "But rules are made to be broken."

Glynnis looked up, a wide smile dawning on her face. "Just what is it that you ‘ave in mind, Mr. Poirot?"

*****

Joceline stood at the side picture window of the room she'd been assigned and watched as Duke Wilmouth, his wife and their only son, Lord Wilmouth entertained a large party on the lawn. Two large tables, festooned with ribbons, were filled with plates of finger sandwiches and fruit and the guests mingled with each other, nibbling as they gossiped and backstabbed. She smiled, thinking of how horrid their lives were compared to hers. She might be in a world that discriminated against her, but at least, she knew who her enemies were.

She was surprised to find herself searching for Poirot. She saw the dapper Captain Hastings in the crowd, but couldn't find Hercule any where. A deep sigh escaped her and she went back to her observation, remembering his promise. The Ball was tonight and he had promised a Ball of their own. She would just have to be patient and wait for whatever he had in mind.

There was a knock on the door and she strode across the room, smiling when she saw Glynnis standing there. "Hello, Glynnis. How can I help you?"

"I'm ‘ere to ‘elp you, ma'am."

"Please don't call me ma'am, Glynnis."

Glynnis smiled. "Yes, ma'am. I ‘ave been sent to collect you for lunch."

"Oh, I see. Well, let me get the boys … "

"No, ma'am … er, Ms. Tarrant. I ‘ave been sent to collect only you."

Joceline stared at the woman for a moment. "What about the boys?"

"You ‘ave me word that they'll be well-taken care of, miss." Glynnis gave a gentle smile. "Now, if you'll be so good as to follow me."

Joceline's heart leapt in her chest as she followed Glynnis down the long corridor and into a part of the house that they'd been told was off-limits to all but staff. A tall door opened into an exquisitely-decorated room and a large red-and-black plaid blanket had been laid out on the Persian carpet, a huge platter of sandwiches and fruit laid out. Poirot arose from his seat, a smile on his face.

"Hercule."

"Hello, Joceline." He stepped forward and took her hand, leading her over to the blanket and hovering over her until she was comfortably seated. Glynnis stood by, waiting for Poirot's nod of dismissal, then softly closed the door after herself. "I thought you might be hungry."

*****

"There you are!"

Poirot turned at the shout, smiling when he was Duke Jarrett Wilmouth striding across the lawn towards him, Hastings and a younger man in tow. Jarrett Wilmouth, even at sixty-six, still cut a handsome figure in his tailored suit and trimmed goatee. His flaxen hair flapping like a silken bird's-wing, he moved easily, his long legs eating up the space between the detective and himself until he was grasping Poirot's hand, nearly dislodging a chocolate-dusted truffle from his fingers.

"Duke Jarrett! How pleased I am to see you!" Poirot suffered the duke's robust embrace and discreetly tossed the half-eaten sweet aside.

"We were looking all over for you, Poirot. Where have you been hiding yourself?"

Hastings started to speak but Poirot beat him to it. "I was taking a nap, Duke Jarrett. The train ride was very … "

The duke smiled. "No need to explain the train ride to me. I still hate them!" The duke laughed loudly. "Did you see who we have for entertainment this year?"

Again, Hastings made a move to talk and Poirot cut him off with a quick wink. "No, sir. Who?"

"Joceline Tarrant!" His enthusiasm caught Poirot off-guard, making him wonder who had ordered the shabby treatment of Joceline and her band members. "Have you heard of her?"

"Yes, I have."

"Oh, Poirot, she has the sweetest singing voice I believe that I've ever heard! And have you seen her?"

"Oui, Duke Jarrett. I have seen her."

"Then you know how beautiful she is."

"Oui." He took a sip of his champagne, letting the bubbles percolate on his tongue. "Then tell me, dear friend, why is it that Miss Tarrant and her band relegated to the rear house?"

"I thought that it would be suitable, given that the band needed to practice before the Ball and the house would provide them with ample space and a modicum of privacy."

"That might be fine for the band but not for the lady. Would it be possible that lodgings could be found for Miss Tarrant in the main house?"

"Absolutely, Poirot! I hadn't thought of it like that. Oh, I hope that I haven't offended Miss Tarrant."

Poirot smiled. "No, mon ami, I am sure that she will forgive the oversight."

"Glynnis!" The duke raised a hand above the crowd, gesturing at the woman who was waiting under the wings. She came running, giving Poirot and Hastings a brief bow before turning her attention to the duke. "Glynnis, would you make see that Miss Tarrant is moved to a suitable room in the main house?"

"Yes, sir, but what about the others, sir?"

"Others? The band members can remain where they are."

"No, sir. Not the band members, the other Ball attendees. What do I say to them if they complain?"

The duke drew himself upright. "Tell them to come and see me." Glynnis curtsied and hurried off to do her duty, gifting Poirot with the smallest of smiles. "Now, Poirot, come have a sherry with me and tell me of your latest case."

*****

The Ball was in full swing when Poirot and Hastings entered. Beaufort's ballroom had been transformed into a wonderland, sporting a champagne fountain and lights that twinkled like stars in the heavens. Elegantly-attired men in dove-tailed tuxedos and bowties and ladies in an artist's palette of gowns and silky robes twirled about the parquet floor while a host of others hovered at the edge of the dance floor and still others mingled around the buffet table and bar area.

Poirot had spent quite a bit of money on the ivory tuxedo he sported this evening and he glanced quickly at his associate, who was still fiddling with his bowtie and smoothing the flaps of his shirt down. "You look fine, Hastings. Please cease with the fiddlement."

"Fiddling." Hastings corrected, tipping his tie to the left and sighing. "I'll never get it right."

"Hastings, it is quite fine as it is. Leave it alone."

The two men moved into the flow of party traffic and spent an hour in the company of several young ladies, married women and interested widows. Poirot did his social best to withstand the onslaught of offers of dancing, politely brushing them off and claiming fatigue. When the clock struck ten, the small square stage lit up while the rest of the room was plunged into darkness and Joceline Tarrant's silky voice wafted through the room.

She appeared moments later, her chocolate frame dressed in a golden sheath, sleeveless except for tiny spaghetti straps and two braces on either arm. Her dark hair fell about her shoulders, the thick curls book-ending her neck and teasing the tops of her full breasts. Her brown eyes swept over the crowd, her blood-red lips pressed together as she hummed the introductory measures of Cole Porter's I've Got You Under My Skin.

Joceline stepped off of the stage, microphone in hand and played to the gathered crowd, pretending to sing the words to the gents and smiling openly at the ladies. When her eyes met Poirot's, the lyrics took on a different meaning, well and truly meant for his heart. The entire set, sixty-five minutes long, was smooth, filled with songs that soon had the dance floor bursting with couples. Riotous applause broke out and Joceline graciously accepted the shouts of brava and sang three more songs.

Poirot watched as she bowed several times, accepting the accolades of a grateful audience and embraced Duke Wilmouth. "Miss Joceline Tarrant and her band!" She bowed again, acknowledged her band and disappeared into the darkness.

"Wonderful." Hastings gushed with a dreamy smile. "Just wonderful."

"Indeed." Poirot answered, lifting his glass in tribute, as did several others. 

"I wonder where Lord Wesley is. He was supposed to announce his candidacy this evening."

"The maid, Glynnis, told me that he had an emergency in town and will announce at breakfast."

"Ah, I see."

Poirot drained his glass and placed it on the nearest table. "Well, dear friend, I must bid you good night."

"Good night? You're going to bed already?"

"I did not say that." The detective gave Hastings a generous smile. "See you in the morning."

*****

Joceline stumbled blindly down the hallway, her eyes closed and her hands held by Glynnis. For once, the maid's usually gossipy mouth was silent and only the sounds of her clunky shoes matched with Joceline's finer heels reverberated down the long hallway. Finally, they came to a halt and a door squeaked open, releasing a warm draft that curled around her ankles and she was gently pulled inside. Glynnis led her to a specific spot and bade her to remain, releasing her hands.

"'ave a good night, miss."

She remained still, following the instructions that Glynnis had given her and shivered when warm breath caressed the back of her neck, accompanied by a gentle pair of hands on her shoulders. Then, his soft voice at her ear, "You may open your eyes now."

Sconces of white tapers met her eyes, their soft glow chasing the gloom from the enormous room. The creamy light fell upon a phonograph in the corner and a three-legged urn that held a frosty bottle of champagne, two glasses sparkling dully nearby. A small table held fare from the Ball: roast duck breast, smoked salmon, dill sauce and fresh rolls but as famished as she was, the sight of Poirot in evening dress drove all thoughts of food out of her mind. He stepped into her line of sight, resplendent in his suit and bowed low over her hand, his warm lips lingering.

"Welcome to the Ball, Lina."

"Oh, Hercule." His fingers wrapped around hers as he led her over to the champagne, popping the cork and pouring each a healthy glass. Joceline stepped closer, holding her glass up for a toast. "To us."

Poirot's eyes glowed in the muted light. "To us." Each took a long sip, their eyes locked and she leaned forward, pressing her cold lips to his cheek. "Shall we dance?" At her nod, he set his glass down and strains of Ray Noble's The Very Thought of You filled the room. He took her glass, setting on the table next to his and led her out to the middle of the floor. His arm encircled her waist while hers rested on his shoulder and her hand nestled in his. Slowly, they began to move around the room.

Poirot thought that he was in a dream. Her dark liquid eyes were locked onto his and her lush body was pressed against his. He felt himself harden and tried to move away from her but she would have none of it. Her body slid against his, making him tremble deep down. The candles whirled by, alternately lighting the soft planes of her lovely face and limning the curves of her lips. He wanted her. He wanted to feel her lips yield to his, to feel the warmth of her body, of her skin against his.

"Lina." He hadn't realized that he'd spoken her name until her hand touched his cheek. Their dance came to a stand still, his hands at her waist and hers cupping his face. He leaned forward and their lips touched, a thrill snaking through Poirot. Her soft scent, the touch of her fingers on his face all combined with her lips to send him shooting to the clouds. His hard cock pressed insistently against her crotch and she ground her hips into his, moaning lightly.




Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 05



***** 
A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY!  
*****

Poirot put on his pajamas and slid into bed, his mind buzzing with his encounter with Joceline. Oh, she was so beautiful! And the way she looked when he kissed her: eyes closed, nostrils gently flaring. And her mouth was so soft and her tongue so gentle. "Oh, Lina." His hand slid across his chest, just as hers had done not thirty minutes earlier, targeting his nipples. She had whispered how much she'd like to run her fingers through his silky chest hair and he had melted at the thought. Now, he imagined her mouth on his nipples, her tongue teasing the tiny nubs.

His cock hardened painfully against his pajama bottoms and he unbuttoned the pants, allowing himself to spring free. He wasn't well-endowed but he was proud of his 6½ inches and its girth and his hand gripped it at the base, giving it a long strong upwards as he imagined that it was her tiny hand instead. A low groan slipped from his throat and he stroked again, squeezing the pre-cum out and coating the head with it.

A deep tingle ran the length of his prick, making his toes curl and he hissed in pleasure, tightening his fist and stroking a little faster. The fat mushroom head bounced against his fingers, slick with his juices and he drew his hand upward, giving it a hard squeeze before stroking down again. He felt his release building, hot and sweet, coiling around the base of his spine and drawing him tight like a piano wire. He couldn't breathe; the sensation was so strong that he could only whimper stroke for stroke, breathless with anticipation.

"Ah, mon amour. Lina!" His cock jerked in his palm and thick strings of semen pulsed across his stomach, each accompanied by a short moan. After the fourth, he took a deep breath and let go. Just then, a knock rang on his door and the agitated voice of Glynnis sounded from the other side.

"Mr. Poirot?"

"Uh, yes?"

"There's a telephone call for you from Scotland Yard. ‘e said it's urgent."

"Give to me one minute." He dashed into the bathroom and hurriedly cleaned his cum from his belly and hands, threw on his robe and slippers and opened the door. Glynnis gave a short curtsy, a kerchief around volumes of her red hair. "Where is the phone?"

"Just in ‘ere, sir." She led him into a small study and Poirot snatched up the phone. "Hello?"

"You're a hard man to find, Poirot. Having fun with the tony set?"

"Good evening, Chief Inspector Japp. How can I help you?"

"We've got another dead one. This time, it's Sister Evangeline. Almost the same as Sister Bernadetta. There are signs of sexual intercourse but she died from smothering."

"Anything missing?"

"Yes, but Sister Lilia won't say. She said that she'll only talk to you."

"I was under the impression that I offended her during my last visit … "

"Ah, yes." Japp laughed at that. He would never have imagined that Hercule Poirot could offend anyone. "She told us about that. Very loudly, I might add. But she insisted that we were still officers and that she wanted to speak with the great detective."

"All right, Japp. Hastings and I will see you at the orphanage tomorrow."

"Thanks, Poirot."

Poirot hung the receiver back on its cradle and turned to thank Glynnis, pausing when he realized that he was alone. He shrugged, sighed and left the study, heading back down the hallway to his room. On the way, he took a fork in the corridor and went the wrong way, heading past Joceline's room. He knew it was her room because her lovely gown had been hung outside for the maids to fluff and package for travel. Poirot stepped in front of the portal, raising his hand to knock and stopping when he heard voices inside.

"What's the problem? I just don't understand." The answering voice was deep and muffled and Poirot couldn't hear what was said. "Then why did you ask me here?" Another response, short and sweet. "That's not fair! That's not fair at all! What did you expect from me?" This time, the response was louder, but the words were still unintelligible. "All these years, I've never asked you for a thing! Not money, not a thing! And now you accuse me of being here for that?" A few more words. "No, just leave. We will be leaving in the morning any way. You can pay us then."

He heard the creaking of the floor as someone approached the door and Poirot hightailed it into a dark recess of the hallway, watching as a tall figure stepped out and headed the opposite direction. Joceline came to the doorway, quickly glancing both ways down the hall. Poirot fought the urge to gasp as her eyes fell upon him and he got the impression that she saw him. Hanging her head, she shut the door and the light under her door was extinguished.

Poirot stood in the shadows, his eyes watering as he battled with his conscience. He wouldn't have felt any different about her had he not heard the conversation but now, now that he'd heard it, his detective instincts exploded into wakefulness, leaving his emotions far behind. What did the lovely singer Joceline Tarrant have to hide and to whom was she speaking?

The heart of Hercule Poirot shrunk back into hibernation, the Belgian silently cursing himself as the realization sunk in that he had allowed his passion to override his intellect. Never again, he said to himself as he retreated to his room. Never again.

*****

" … and I thought that the way she vocally phrased the song was just wonderful! Didn't you think so, Poirot?"

The detective scowled, desperately trying to ignore his associate's words. Hastings was in a rare mood this morning, liberally heaping his plate with soft scrambled eggs, kippers and fried potatoes. He had seen Joceline across the room, chatting with guests and was still as smitten with her as he had been the first time he'd seen her.

For once, Hastings quit speaking, realizing that his friend had remained silent the entire length of his conversation. "What's wrong, old chap?"

"Nothing, Hastings." Poirot forced himself into motion, setting the steel lid aside and gazing in at half-jelled eggs. His stomach turned. "Are the eggs good?"

"Don't try to change the subject, Poirot. I haven't been friends with you for all these years not to realize when someone's changing the subject." Hastings moved closer to his friend, the intensity of his voice dropping. "And I know that the way you felt about Miss Tarrant last night is definitely different than how you feel now." He set his plate down. "So what happened?"

"Nothing, Hastings. Just as I said." The detective spat, elbowing past the captain and heading into the crowd, hoping to get lost. Unfortunately, his movement had caught Joceline's eye and she met him in the middle, her smile nervous.

"Good morning, Hercule."

"Good morning, mademoiselle."

Joceline noticed the coldness in his reply and knew that he had been the person in the hallway last night. Her heart dropped in her chest and she stammered, "I-I was just going to grab a little breakfast."

"Enjoy yourself then." He turned his back on her, intent on heading in the opposite direction but her hand on his shoulder stopped him.

"Please don't do this, Hercule. If you're angry with me, let's talk about it, but please, don't shut me out."

Poirot closed his eyes and sighed, letting his shoulders droop. "I am not shutting you out, I'm merely … "

"Yes, you are." She stepped a little closer so that her words were for his ears only. "You know what? Forget it. I thought we had started something wonderful but I see that you're just like the rest of them." She paused. "Everyone has a past, Hercule, including you."

Her words sent a knife through him and he whirled to address her, distressed to find that she was already gone. His eyes searched the crowd, desperately trying to locate her but her beautiful fall of black hair and baby blue dress was nowhere to be found. He ground his teeth and began to edge out to the hallway when Duke Wilmouth's voice rang out over the gathering.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" The crowd immediately quieted with just a few murmurs of continued conversations. "I wanted to do this last night but my son came to me and said that there a business emergency and he had to leave. I asked her what her name was." Laughter filled the space and Poirot smiled, the mirth not reaching his eyes. "But seriously, you have all known my son, Wesley, for as long as you've known me and I hope that you will join me in supporting his bid in the next general election! May I present to you, the next representative in the House of Commons, my son, Lord Wesley Wilmouth!"

A roar of approval rent the air and a handsome young man entered the room, shaking hands as he moved through the crowd, heading for the podium. Lord Wesley greatly resembled his father, in both stature and looks and the picture of them standing next to each other was a perfect father/son portrait. Poirot's attention was tugged to the doorway where Joceline stood watching quietly. Her eyes met his and she turned away, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.

Poirot watched her leave, his heart breaking with her every step and Hastings patted his shoulder. "You're making a big mistake letting that one go, Poirot."

His usually quick wit defeated him at this moment. "Let us go, mon ami." His voice was soft, his hurt running deep. "The chief inspector is waiting for us."

*****

Miss Lemon stood outside the door, looking in on her motionless employer. Every day, since Poirot and Hastings had returned from Wilmouth's Fall Gathering four weeks ago, the Belgian detective had spent most of the morning and afternoon staring aimlessly out of the windows. She heard the door behind her open and she glanced back to see Hastings entering, removing his hat and coat as he approached.

"Good morning, Miss Lemon. How is our patient today?"

"The same, Captain Hastings. He hasn't moved a muscle!" She whispered, still staring at Poirot. "He can't keep doing this every day!"

"He has a broken heart, Miss Lemon. He doesn't know how to react."

"You do not need to stand there and speak about me as if I am dead." Poirot said softly, slowly turning to look at his friends.

Hastings and Miss Lemon glanced at each other and stepped into the office, both clearly uncomfortable. They had always looked to Poirot for support or comfort and it was strange to them to be on the opposite side. "Sorry, Poirot." Hastings sat on the couch while Miss Lemon remained standing. "We just figured that you were so deep in thought … "

"Not so deep in thought that I could not hear you."

"Sorry, Mr. Poirot, but you've been moping around here for so long … "

"I do not mope, Miss Lemon!"

"Poirot, you haven't moved much from this office since Joceline … "

"I will thank you not to mention her name, Hastings."

"Why?" 

Poirot turned around, staring at his friend. "What do you mean, why? Because I do not wish to hear her name!"

"Yes, but why, Poirot? You were so in love with her … "

"Poirot was not in love!"

"Maybe Mr. Poirot needs to fall in love." Miss Lemon's sensible voice said softly. "Love is sometimes painful, Mr. Poirot, but you can't miss the journey."

Poirot glared at her for a long moment. "But what if I do not want to take this painful journey?"

"Then you remain alone." Her eyes grew pink and watery. "And lonely."

Hastings fished an envelope out of his pocket, along with a small box and laid it on the desk in front of the detective. "I think you should read this."

Poirot read the addressor and addressee information and looked up at his friend. "How long have you had this?"

"She sent it to me two weeks ago, when she reached Paris."

"Why didn't she just send it to me?"

Hastings sighed. "She was afraid that you wouldn't accept it."

Poirot looked down at the envelope that had Hastings' name written on it in an elegant hand, then very carefully, very reverently, he pulled out the sheaf of oatmeal paper.

Dear Captain Hastings,

Please forgive me for not saying goodbye to you but my band and I had to leave early to make sure that we were not late for the train. You were so kind to me. I thank you for that kindness. It was so refreshing to find such individuals as you and Hercule that were willing to see past the color of my skin and wanting to get to know me. 

I'm writing this letter partly to thank you and partly to ask you for a favor. Hercule and I … well, our special friendship didn't end as well as I'd hoped and I … forgive me, Captain Hastings. I have never felt this way about anyone before and I think that Hercule feels the same way about me. I know that his reputation as a detective requires him to be on guard all the time but I had hoped that he would remember that we are all mortals on this planet, that we all have past lives and secrets. It seems that I do not qualify.

I have enclosed a small gift that I purchased for Hercule. I would greatly appreciate it if you would be so kind as to forward this on to him with my deepest regards. Maybe he and I can reconnect in the future. I am hoping so.

If you are ever in Paris, please look me up. I have permanently reserved two tickets in the hopes that you and Hercule will come to see the show.

Sincerely, Joceline Tarrant

Poirot didn't dare move for a moment once he'd finished reading the letter. His hands were shaking, his chest felt tight and his pince-nez had fallen, leaving his eyesight occluded and rapidly darkening. With thick, clumsy fingers, he opened the flat box, pressing the tissue flaps aside and lifting a handsome monogrammed money clip from its cotton bed.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot!" Miss Lemon breathed.

"I say!" Hastings exclaimed.

Poirot let his fingers run along the sides of the golden item, deep in thought. He imagined the smile on her face as she placed the box in his hand. He felt the heat in her hands as she touched his cheeks, her fingertips playing along the line of his mustache. He tasted her sweet lips when she leaned forward, pressing her soft mouth against his. He closed his eyes against the thoughts.

"It doesn't have to be too late, Mr. Poirot." Miss Lemon whispered. "She's given you an open invitation."

Hastings watched the change in Poirot's face. "What do you say, Poirot?"

The great Belgian detective slowly arose to his feet and turned to the window, the money clip in his warm grasp. "Miss Lemon, if you please, book us two tickets for Paris."

*****

For the fifth time that day, Joceline caught herself stroking the rose that Poirot had given her during their Ball. She would never have expected such a man to be so gentle, so passionate. Blood rushed to her cheeks when she remembered the warmth of his hands on her body and tears curdled in her eyes. Are you thinking about me, Hercule? Are you missing me as much as I miss you?

She sighed deeply and returned to applying her make-up when there was a knock on the door. "Come in."

Ellie, the stage manager stepped in. "Hi, Lina. Just wanted to stop by and let you know that the spotlight is fixed."

"Oh, good. Thank you, Ellie."

"You're on in twenty."

"Thanks." The door shut again and she turned back to the mirror, gazing at her reflection. Her face was beautiful but her eyes were sad. Maybe that was why she was singing torch songs instead of something more uplifting. She set the brush down and rubbed her forehead, fighting tears that threatened to explode. There was another knock on the door and she sniffed, dabbing the tears away. "Come in."

Again, the door swung open, but this time, it was not Ellie. Poirot stood there, his hat and cane in hand. His eyes met hers in the mirror. "Hello, Lina."

She couldn't help herself. She jumped up and flung herself into his arms, sobbing with relief when she felt his arms encircle her, holding her tightly. "Oh, Hercule. I was hoping … I was hoping … "

Poirot pulled back and captured her lovely mouth with his own, relishing the softness of her lips and the tender play of her tongue against his. God, how he had missed this woman! She whimpered low in her throat, the sound making the heat rise in his body and he crushed her closer, pushing his hips against hers so she could feel his hard cock, so she would know the extent of his interest.

"I am sorry." He whispered against her brow, holding her close. "I am so sorry to judge you, my dear Lina."

"No, it's all right to judge me, Hercule." Joceline looked up at him. "But it's not all right to shut me out. I'll tell you anything you want to know."

"Later." He murmured, bending to kiss her again. This time, he let his hands roam over her back, his hands curving in to cup her breasts. 

She trembled in her arms, her moans muffled by the stroke of his tongue and she shook again when his fingers slid under the folds of her robe to find her heated flesh. "Hercule." His lips started at her throat, his hands pushing the garment open as he went, coasting over her perfumed slopes until he reached her knobby nipples. "Oh, yes!" The words slipped from her mouth in an elated gasp as his hot mouth covered her nipple, licking and sucking until she was so hard that it was painful. He kissed across the valley and attacked the other nipple, leaving it in the same state as the other and making her breathless.

Poirot lifted his head, his pulse firing at the lust he read in her dark eyes. "Ma cherie, as much as I want to, we cannot do this here." He pulled the robe closed, retying the sash. "I would not feel comfortable making love to you in this place." He bent and nipped her neck, drawing her gasp. "And I want our time together to be private." A knock sounded on the door and Ellie called out a ten minute warning. "And unhurried."

Joceline nodded, so happy that she couldn't think straight. "Will you be staying for the show?"

"Most assuredly. I have brought Captain Hastings with me so we shall watch the show and then we will all have dinner afterwards."

She stepped closer, sliding her hands under his lapels possessively, her voice teasing and seductive. "And later?"

"We will have dessert." Poirot answered, taking her mouth in a long, deep kiss. "And I will continue where I left off." Picking his hat and cane up from the table, he opened the door, quickly adjusting his stiff prick. "See you later."

"Yes, see you later." Joceline closed the door and leaned against it with a huge smile. Yes, Hercule. I will see you later.



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 06



***** 
A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! 
*****

The concert had been sensational. Joceline glowed on the stage, winning numerous encores and captivating the audience in a way that she hadn't in weeks. Even the orchestra director noticed her effervescence, applauding her from his podium. She took several bows, her shining eyes locked onto Poirot's and her smile grew even wider. Afterwards, Poirot and Hastings collected her from a crowded dressing room of ardent fans and snuck her out into the crisp night air.

"Miss Tarrant, you were fantastic this evening!"

Joceline gave Hastings a hug. "Thank you." She smiled, turning to Poirot who took her hand, giving it a squeeze. "And thank you for bringing him."

"Can't thank me for that, I'm afraid. Your letter took care of that." Joceline couldn't resist grinning at Poirot again who unabashedly returned the gesture. "Listen, I'm going to go back to the hotel. You two go along without me."

"Hastings! What are you saying? We're going to dinner together!"

"Absolutely, Captain Hastings." Joceline linked her arm through his. "I won't hear of it."

Tears of gratitude glistened in his eyes. "Well, I … "

Joceline ignored the blustering man and nearly skipped, sandwiched on the arms of two wonderful men and feeling as if she were on top of the world. "Now, where shall we dine?"

*****

Hastings was losing the battle. His eyes were drooping and he longed to rest his forehead on the clean linen tablecloth just to make the room stop spinning. He surmised that he had had too much to drink but he didn't care. To see Poirot happy, he would have drunk twice as much. His only wish was that he still had control of his legs. Just now, they didn't seem to be listening to his wishes. The combination of fine cabernet, fine sherry and exhaustion finally claimed him and he slumped over in the chair.

Poirot and Joceline were oblivious to Hastings. They slowly moved about the dance floor, hands clutched together over his heart and their bodies pressed close together. His lips pressed softly against her cheek, ear and forehead and she sighed in absolute bliss. After a marvelous dinner of sole almandine and haricots verts, the detective had invited the singer to dance and seven songs later, they were still on the floor, enjoying each other's company.

"Lina?"

"Oui?"

His smiling lips pressed against her forehead. "I think it is time for us to go."

"I don't want to go yet." She sighed, turning her face to his. "I'm having a great time."

"As am I." Poirot kissed her lips quickly, not trusting himself to give her a more lingering buss. "But Hastings … "

Joceline followed his gesture and saw Hastings slumped over the table. "Oh, my goodness! Yes. Let's go, by all means!"

It took a few minutes to rouse the deeply sleeping Hastings and get him into a taxi. Poirot paid the fare and requested the driver to take him to the hotel. Hastings tried to argue but he was too tired. However, he did not argue when Joceline insisted on giving him a kiss on the cheek and lapsed into a happy slumber. Poirot hailed another taxi and they headed to Joceline's flat so that she could pick up some things. He wanted her in his bed this evening.

"Would you like me to come up with you?"

"No, it'll only take me a few minutes." She leaned over and kissed him, sighed at the feeling of his mouth taking hers. "I'll be right back."

Poirot released her and watched her walk up the short path and open the door with a key. She had barely stepped inside when she screamed and came running back to the car. "What's wrong? What is it?"

"My home! There's blood everywhere!"

An hour later, she was still trembling and Poirot was incensed. The French police had taken care of the scene with their analysis being that the blood was from an animal, most likely a pig but that didn't calm Joceline. With the words LEAVE OR DIE written with the blood and all the walls smeared with it, she could do nothing but tremble. Poirot was incensed because someone had scared the living daylights out of her and she didn't deserve it.

"Monsieur Poirot?" The head officer called him over and gave him a satchel with the few items of clothing and collectibles that hadn't been ruined. "This was all we were able to salvage."

"Merci." Poirot took the case and headed for the taxi that Joceline waited in. Her makeup had run and her eyes looked puffy from crying. He gathered her into his arms and held her close as the tears came again. "It's all right, Lina. You shall be with me from now on."

"Oh, Hercule. It was so … " She sobbed. "There was so much blood!"

"It was the blood of an animal, Lina. Don't let it get to you too much. The good captain has notified the landlord and it will all be cleaned up and taken care of." He tightened his arms around her. "You can stay with me at the hotel or we can find you another place, whatever you'd like."

"I want to stay with you, Hercule." She murmured into the thick cloth of his jacket. "Wherever you are, I want to be there."

"And so you shall be, my Lina." The taxi pulled into the early morning traffic, heading for the hotel.

*****

Poirot left Joceline in the room and immediately went to Hastings' room, informing him of the death threat and the blood. Hastings was appalled, even in a state of half-sleep, and promised to help investigate in any way he could as long as he could get a few hours' more of sleep. Poirot agreed, noting that it was three o'clock in the morning and left his friend once again snoring loudly in the land of slumber.

He used his key when he entered the room and stood in the doorway of the bedroom, his heart fluttering in his chest. Joceline was sprawled out across the bed, her torso covered in one of his white dress shirts. Her long legs stretched out, ending in short toes and she had unpinned her hair, letting the dark waves crest over the pillow, ending in silky curls. He removed his jacket, placing it over the caddy and slipped his shoes off, sitting next to her. He couldn't help himself as he reached for a length of hair and rubbed the strands against his fingers.

For some reason, he felt as he was watching someone from afar, someone wearing his clothes and his skin, touching the hair of this beautiful woman. This shouldn't be him sitting here, should it? This wasn't the life of Hercule Poirot, was it? Where was the detached nature that had served him so well? The quiet cunning, the not-so-subtle arrogance? All of the weapons he usually had at his disposal to keep the world at an arm's length could not serve him now. The walls were down and he had no earthly idea of how to resurrect them.

"Hercule?" Her soft voice brought him back to the present, her eyes gently questioning. He leaned down and pressed his mouth to hers, curling his tongue around hers. "Is Captain Hastings all right?"

"Oui, mon amour." He said soothingly. "But I should be asking you the same question."

"I am fine." Joceline lifted his hand and pressed a wet kiss to the inside of his palm, letting her lips linger. "You're here with me."

"Lina, I … "

"Hercule, I want you to make love to me … " She sat up, her long hair fanning out over her shoulders. "But there are some things that I want you to know first."

"Lina, it's not necessary."

"Yes, it is." Joceline pulled herself up onto her knees, cupping his face in her hands. "I want to give myself to you, Hercule, but I can't do that without you knowing my past."

Ordinarily, Poirot would push a person like her away but his keen senses and the underused muscle pulsing in his chest convinced him to take a chance. "All right, Lina."

Joceline's story began simply. She had arrived on these shores, wide-eyed and filled with the excitement of a first time visitor to Europe. It was hard to find a job singing. No one believed that a 19-year old woman could sing, especially since she was black, so she was denied dozens of auditions. A friend of hers told her about an opening at Lord Jarrett Wilmouth's estate. Desperate to make a living, she went to the estate, in the hopes of securing a job.

"Jarrett was a handsome man. I guess I got taken by his pretty face." She refused the comfort that Poirot offered, opting to prove her emotional mettle to him. "He took me aside after the first interview and told me that I was the most beautiful black woman he'd ever seen. I was flattered, of course." She knitted her fingers together, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I was young, Hercule … "

He quietly shushed her, wrapping his hands around her and patiently waiting until she was prepared to continue. "I understand, Lina. Please, go on."

"After I was hired, I was so happy. I had a good job with a kind family and Jarrett was so attentive to me. Of course, he couldn't do so in front of his parents but he would catch me at the odd moment and swing me around. Or leave marigolds in the pocket of my uniform. Or touch my cheek when he said goodnight." Joceline paused, her brown eyes filling with tears at the bittersweet memories. "Then, one night, he told me that he had fallen in love with me and wanted to marry me.

"I knew that his parents would never consent but I was living a fantasy, I guess. And when he gave me the ring, I thought he was serious and that I'd found my true love." A jagged laugh burst from her lips and Poirot's heart broke for her. "He asked me to meet him in the green house and we made love." She paused, her voice breaking. "It was the first time for me."

Silence followed her statement and he kept her fingers wrapped in his, warm and surrounded. "And after that?"

"I got pregnant. We only did it … " She was clearly uncomfortable with the words. "A couple of times. Three to be exact and Jarrett was furious with me. He begged me to … to … get rid of it." She took a deep breath. "But I just couldn't. I couldn't extinguish that life growing inside me."

Her fierceness made Poirot swoon. "An innocent life."

"Yes, Hercule. You understand. An innocent life." She sighed deeply. "I quit my job and gave birth to a baby boy." Her voice grew soft. "I decided to give him up for adoption. I got to see him once, when he was born and that was it. I've never heard anything about else about him."

Poirot's deep voice slipped softly into her ears. "You must miss him greatly."

She nodded. "I do. I try not to think about him but I find myself wondering if he's had a good life, hoping that he's had a good life." Joceline gave him a tremulous smile. "What you heard at Beaufort was Jarrett confronting me about our child. He thought I wanted money."

"Why did he invite you to perform at the Fall Gathering?"

"He didn't ask me. His wife, Florence, did."

"Ah, I see." He let his mind ruminate over the new information, then quickly returned to her. He saw so much more now. He saw an innocent that had been wronged, a mother denied the chance to raise her child and an older woman who was interested in an even older detective. "Lina, " He started, looking down at their intertwined hands. "It's been a long time since I've made love. In fact, it's been … "

Joceline covered his lips with her own, seducing him with the softness of her mouth. "Quiet." She murmured against his lips. "I haven't been with anyone since Jarrett." She gazed into his eyes, trembling at the hunger she saw there. "And you made me a promise."

Grateful relief washed through Poirot, closely followed by a sense of awe. Joceline had been with no other man save Jarrett and she wanted Poirot to be her second. The honor he felt nearly brought her to tears. Somehow she knew what he was feeling and she moved forward, kissing him again. 

"And I shall honor that promise." He whispered, a surge of pride and passion burst in Poirot's veins. He pulled her to him, burying his thick fingers in her hair as he plundered her soft mouth. She whimpered in his embrace, gasping when his mouth moved down to her neck, nipping and biting the soft flesh before crossing her collarbones and heading for the perfumed valley of her breasts. His quivering fingers worked at the buttons of the shirt, sliding inside and filling his palms with her heavy breasts.

"Oh, Hercule." Her skin tingled when his mouth captured a nipple and she gasped at the sensations that streaked from her breast to her pussy. She reached forward, letting her hand slide along his thigh, shivering when her fingers found the sizable lump in his pants. He growled against her breast, sending warm ripples through her and she unzipped him, reaching in and pulling his thick stalk out.

"Oh." Poirot could only gasp when her warm hand gripped his cock and allowed her to push him onto his back. She unbuttoned his vest and shirt, running her hands through his chest hair and then, she did something that surprised him. She bent down and licked one of his nipples. Poirot nearly screamed in pleasure, his body arching off the bed, bewilderment in his face. She licked again, this time letting the edge of her teeth graze the pink nub. He shouted.

"I think I've found something you like, Hercule." Joceline purred, helping him shrug out of his vest and shirt, then his pants. "Let me see if you like this." Licking like a cat with cream, she let her tongue leave a trail down his furred chest to the thick forest of hair that surrounded his cock.

"No, Lina. Don't!" Poirot sat up quickly, embarrassment coloring his features. "Don't do that."

"Why not?"

"It's … it's … "

"It's what?" There were three more buttons on the shirt she was wearing and she casually unbuttoned one. "It's dirty?" The shoulder of the shirt slipped down, exposing her shoulder and breast and she smiled, seeing his prick leap. "It's nasty?" Another button and the shirt slipped down to her waist, pooling around her legs. "It's … "

"It's not proper!" Poirot barked, his eyes riveted to her dark-nippled globes.

"Who said it had to be proper?"

"Hercule Poirot says!"

Joceline smiled. She would have expected nothing less from the great Hercule Poirot, a gentleman's gentleman. She had known that she would have to break down certain things in his personality and this was one of them. "Whatever we do to each other in the course of making love is very proper, Hercule. Now lie back and let me show you."

"No, Lina. I … " She lightly bit one of his nipples and he lost his concentration. "No … " Her hot tongue swirled over the pink disk, laving over and over and Poirot's cock pulsed with each swipe. Her warm breath traced her path back down to his groin and that same tongue slowly licked up one side of his pole and down the other. Poirot forgot to breathe.

The moment his body stiffened, she knew that she had his attention. She swabbed his pole again, up and down, carefully avoiding the dark cap and the clear juice that was dripping from the slit. It seemed that each time she completed a circuit up and down, his cock grew a little longer and a little thicker. His hands fisted the blankets and his toes curled into claws. Hiding a smile, she licked upward, paused a few seconds, then lowered her mouth over the head of his meat pole.

"Merde!" Poirot breathed, his entire body quaking from the warm, wet touch of her mouth. Her tongue curled around the head, tickling the sensitive ridges and slipping into the slick opening. He groaned as she sucked him, roughly tongue-lashing him. "Lina … " It had been so long that it didn't take him long to reach the edge. Before he could warn her, he was cumming, his tube of flesh throbbing in her mouth and to his amazement, she swallowed every drop.

Joceline waited for a few moments, gently licking until his body relaxed against the sheets, then she moved up next to him, pressing kisses to his flaming cheeks. Poirot opened his eyes, gazing at her and she placed two fingers on his lips before he opened his mouth to speak, then replaced them with her lips. She was surprised when he jerked away, grabbing his pants and jacket, his cheeks still burning with the deep evidence of his shame. "Hercule?"

"I must go, Joceline. I will see you in the morning."

"What? You're leaving?"

"I … " His eyes fell to her thick brown nipples and he swallowed, licking his lips unconsciously. "I can't stay."

"Hercule, please! Don't leave! Talk to me!"

Poirot heard the plea in her voice but the consummate professional within him screamed at the physical and spiritual breach. He was uncomfortable allowing anyone close to him and Joceline had crashed through that protective border. But it wasn't just that that made Poirot agree to flee. It was the fact that she had done it so easily that made him fearful. Maybe she was a whore; a talented, beautiful whore that looked for men like him, lonely men that would accept a pretty face without question and would be easy prey.

Poirot cast a last glance at the breathtaking woman in his bed, from the long, silky black hair that brushed her shoulders to the soft mound that rested between her creamy brown thighs, aching for his touch.

"I am sorry, Lina. Au revoir."



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 07



***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

The next morning at breakfast, Hastings noticed another distinct change in the Belgian detective. He ate nothing, which in itself was unusual, but when he turned down his beloved tisane, he knew there was something wrong. The captain ate quietly, observing his friend between bites and wondering when he should say something. In the end, the choice was taken from him. Poirot spoke.

"Hastings, you are my very best friend, do you know that?"

Hastings set his utensils down, wiping his mouth while staring curiously at Poirot. "I didn't know that but thanks."

"You have always known that deep in your heart, Hastings. I may not always show it but I surmise that you know me well." Both men nodded to the other. "I rely on your advice far more than you know and right now, I desperately need your help."

"Just say the word, Poirot. I'll help you with anything you need!"

A small smile broke the serious man's features and Poirot gave his excited friend a small pat on the shoulder. "I am happy that you are most anxious to help me, mon ami, but it is a delicate matter and one not easily spoken of." Poirot paused to order a tisane from the passing waiter and settled into silence until the man returned with his order. He took a few calming sips, then turned to Hastings. "It is about sex."

"Sex?"

"Sshh!" Poirot harshly shushed his friend, glancing around to see if anyone had noticed the outburst. When he was satisfied that no unwanted attention was being turned their way, he continued, giving Hastings a stern look in the process. "Please do not tell everyone our business, Hastings!"

"I'm sorry, Poirot. It was just ... " He searched for a word. "Startling to hear that from you."

"Why, mon ami? Hercule Poirot is a man, after all."

"Yes, but ... "

"But what? Do you not think I've had sex before?" The captain's uncomfortable silence lent him an answer. "Hastings! You do not think that I've had sex before?"

"Uh ... er ... "

"Do you think that I am a man who likes other men?"

"No, no! Not at all! It's just that you are always so involved in your cases ... and I've never seen you in a relationship with a woman long enough to consummate it."

Poirot sighed in defeat. "That has been true of late, my friend, but I have enjoyed sex before." Poirot took another long sip of his beverage. "But it was only once, as a young man and I fear that I did something wrong last night."

"With Joceline?"

The great detective nodded. "I think I have made a mistake monumental and I wish to fix it. I do not want to lose her over my ... inexperience."

"Surely you wouldn't lose her over that, Poirot. Joceline doesn't not seem like the kind of person to rub one's nose in one's problems."

"No, she is not, but I ... last night, she did something to me that ... that I have never before experienced and I fear that I had the wrong reaction to it."

Hastings leaned close. "What did she do?"

Poirot's mouth opened and closed several times as he searched for words of explanation. "She ... put her mouth on me."

"Ah!" The captain sat back, a smile on his face. "She gave you a blowjob."

"Blowjob? This is what you call it?"

"Yes. The woman takes your cock in her mouth and sucks until you shoot."

"Oh, Hastings! These words you use!"

"Well, that's what happens, Poirot. No use mincing about it."

Poirot shook his head in understanding, fighting the uncomfortable feelings that went with this conversation. "So this ... blowjob ... is it a normal occurrence?"

"Sometimes. If you find the right woman."

"What do you mean?"

"Some women are not interested in it. I mean, think of it from the woman's point of view. She has a thick cylinder of hard flesh shoved into her mouth, stretching her jaws and throat. Makes is damned hard to breathe, especially when the man is persistent in ramming it."

"Is that not what a man is supposed to do?"

"A man should be compassionate and let the woman set the tone. She should have the control. If she is comfortable, she will give you back degrees of control. A lot of men force the issue and then the woman never gives them a blowjob again."

"I see."

"That's one of the reasons I said, if you find the right woman." Hastings squirmed in his seat a bit, embarrassed to find himself hardening over this discussion. "The other reason is that she has to take your cum into her mouth or swallow it."

"Cum, Hastings?"

"Semen, sperm ... you know. Ejaculate."

"Ah, this word I know." Poirot hesitated, running the new word over his tongue. "Cum."

"Yes. Some women don't like to swallow and they'll spit it out. The best is when the woman takes you fully into her mouth or throat just as you're cumming and swallows every drop. Her throat muscles squeeze you as she swallows and that ... " Hastings gave his own cock a squeeze under the table. "That is magnificent."

Poirot thought back to what Joceline had done to him, how she had licked him up and down like a child's candy pop, then had taken him deep in her mouth, her tongue swirling around him and sucking until ... a shiver ran down his spine as he remembered spilling into her mouth. "That was what Lina did to me."

"By Jove! You've got a good one then!" Hastings exclaimed, then quieted, noticing his lack of response. "How did you react to it?"

"I left her."

"What!"

"Sshh!" Heads turned at this outburst. Poirot picked up his cup and sipped until the interest faded away while Hastings shoveled cold eggs and kippers into his mouth. 

"Sorry, I just can't believe that you left her after she did that for you!"

"I ... I wasn't prepared, Hastings."

"So you want my advice?"

"Absolutement."

"Go upstairs, throw her onto her back and lick her until she screams your name."

Poirot nearly choked. "Lick her, Hastings?"

"Yes. Lick her. Spread her legs and lick her pussy until she cums all over your tongue." The expression on Poirot's face was laughable but Hastings didn't laugh. He was disgusted. "Don't tell me ... "

"I have never done that, either, Hastings."

"Then what exactly have you done?"

The Belgian carefully set his china cup down and patted his lips dry. "Her name was Amelie and we were in her father's tool shed."

"And?"

"I stuck my fingers in her ... "

"The word is pussy, Poirot."

Poirot nodded. "I stuck my fingers in her pussy, rubbed it a few times, then got on top of her."

"Did she cum?"

He thought for a long moment. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"Sshh!" Poirot held his head in his hands, ignoring the impolite stares of the waitstaff and the maitre 'd. "No, I don't know." He took another bracing sip of his tisane. "It took me a matter of seconds before I finished and her father called for her."

"Pathetic."

Poirot raised his head, staring angrily at his friend. "What did you say?"

"I said, pathetic. Damned pathetic!" Hastings took a breath. "Poirot, don't you understand what a woman is? A woman is a beautiful flower with petals that you stroke and the more you stroke, the more beautiful the scent is. We men don't need the extra attention to reach our release but a selfless woman knows what to do to bring a man to her level; to a level that is only reachable by a man who's willing to leave the world behind." He paused to let the words sink in. "Anyone can have sex, Poirot. It takes a special man and a special woman to make love. And it begins in the details."

"Details?"

"Joceline is a beautiful woman. You know that she's beautiful on the outside. Find out what makes her beautiful on the inside. She's willing to let you inside her, not just physically but spiritually as well." Hastings' voice lowered to a soft murmur. "There is no greater joy than to know that the reason she's cumming is because of what you've done to her. That you've spent time sucking on her nipples, that you kissed your way down her stomach, that you tongue her pussy until she's creamy. And then, when you slide in and you're moving together and you see the look in her eyes when she's about to cum ... " He closed his eyes, quickly unzipping his pants and stroking his cock. "She whispers your name, closes her eyes and her pussy grips your cock as she cums."

His cock spurted into his palm and his face flushed under the sweet exertion. Poirot's eyes were closed also, his nostrils lightly flaring. Their eyes met across the table and both broke out into brays of laughter, reaching for their napkins. 

The detective's eyes shone with mirth. "That, mon ami, is the best advice you've ever given me."

"Then go to her, Poirot, and give her everything that you have. Don't hold back. Leave the world behind."

With the tangy-sweet smell of his own cum wafting into his nostrils, he carefully folded the napkin and signaled to the waiter. Yes, time to leave the world behind.

* * * * *

The door knocker was heavy but she managed to lift it three times, starting nervously as the booming reverberations echoed behind the well-built portal. Through the leaded beveled glass, she saw someone approach, first opening the inner door, then the outer door. A man in an immaculate butler's uniform eyed her, his expression haughty.

"May I help you?"

Sister Lilia stepped forward, her habit swaying in the gentle breeze. "Yes. I'm Lilia."

"Yes, you are expected." The butler stiffly moved aside to allow her entrance. "Please follow me." 

He led her to the library and left her alone in the expansive room. She made herself at home, choosing the chair in front of the roaring fire and kicking her shoes off. It was just a few minutes before she felt the warmth of his hands on her shoulders and she sighed deeply. He came around the front of the chair and knelt between her legs, pushing the gown up and exposing her naked body underneath.

"I'm sorry. I couldn't wait." She said breathlessly, watching as his hands ripped the fabric apart, leaving the reflections of the flames to lick her honeyed skin. His thick fingers traveled up her thighs, pulling them apart as his mouth bent to awaken her hidden nub. The breath left her throat in a single, long gasp. "Ah, yes. Suck me, my love."



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 08



***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

She was sleeping.

Poirot stood over her, noticing that she was naked beneath the sheer sheet. Her hair stretched behind her as if caught in the wind and tear stains marked her creamy brown cheeks. His heart lurched in his chest as he realized that he was the cause of those streaks. She had only wanted to bring him pleasure, to let him know how much she cared for him, how much she loved him. She had given him the precious gift of her selfless attention and he had rejected her as if she was a whore. There had been nothing whorish in her actions. He knew that with certainty now.

She felt wet warmth on her cheek and the gentle touch of fingertips drew her from her troubled sleep. She was startled and confused to find Poirot leaning over her, cleansing the dried tracks away with a washcloth. 

"Please forgive me yet again, dear Lina. It seems that I am not as smart as I think I am." He set the cloth aside, using another square of cloth to dry her soft skin. "Lina," He caught her eyes, his own watering as the realization of his love and his life lay silently before him. He was even more amazed that she was still here and that spoke volumes to him. "I am an old dog, Lina. I have been alone and lived alone for so long that I am very set in my ways." He paused, overwhelmed, his throat aching with tears. "I wish to ask for your forgiveness once again in the hopes that you will take pity on me and ... " The lump in his throat grew so large that it was becoming almost impossible to squeeze the words past it. "And ... "

Joceline didn't speak. Her hands softly enveloped his, tugging the cloth away and pressing her lips to his palm. She felt the fall of his tears and reached up, pulling his trembling mouth down to hers and pressing her lips against his. His arms encircled her, bringing her body tightly to his and she sighed in happiness. Then, once again, she loosened his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, sliding it down his shoulders and almost smiling at the shiver that her fingertips elicited from his flesh.

When she sat up, he couldn't help himself. His shaking hands smoothed the skin of her exposed shoulders, then moved down to cup her breasts, rubbing the thick, dark nipples between his fingers. She gasped, violently shivering. "I know you like a challenge, Hercule." Her dark sultry voice wormed into his very soul, firing his passion. "Beg for forgiveness ... " He started to speak when she continued. "Without words."

Poirot left the world behind. He pushed her back into the pillows, his mouth covering hers, then moving down to her dark chocolate nipples and sucking until they were glistening nubbins. She gasped at his assault, allowing him complete control as he moved from breast to breast, then nuzzled her freshly-shaven, smooth armpits before heading south, across her stomach. He heard the hungry rumble inside and nipped the sensitive flesh, making her groan loudly. His prick thickened as she arched beneath him, the seductive scent of fresh sweat and her weeping sex assailing his nostrils. While his lips continued to circle around her belly button, one thick-fingered hand cupped her shaven mound, applying pressure at the fat crest. "Oh, God!" She breathed loudly.

His fingers spread her fat, puffy lips apart, dividing and conquering her sodden pussy and diving deeply within. Joceline moaned again, trembling against him as he slid two fingers inside her. He stroked slowly, letting her feel every inch of his warm flesh. "I must confess to you ... " He raised his fingers to his mouth and sucked her cream from them, watching her watching him. "Hercule Poirot has never ... " He placed soft kisses on the tops of her thighs, moving upwards. "Ever ... " His hands hooked underneath her knees and lifted them upwards, spreading them slightly. "Failed a challenge."

Poirot leaned forward, inhaling her womanly perfume and his cock twitched. He was the cause of this, he thought, remembering Hastings' words. He was the reason that she was wet and willing. He lowered his mouth to her slit, his tongue snaking out to gently play along her pearly inner lips before pressing inward. Her slow exhalation told him what he needed to know and he licked again, widening his tongue to swab both lips and her shimmering hole, spearing in to dip into the cream. She shuddered in his grasp.

"Oh!" No one had ever licked her there before and her senses were awash with absolute bliss. Her pussy walls rippled, releasing waves of cream that he eagerly licked up. Again and again, his tongue dove into her slick love canal and again and again, she gasped in pleasure, fighting the release she knew was coming in an effort to make it last. But she was failing miserably. Despite Poirot's inexperience, he was a quick learner and his tongue was driving her to the edge with the same dogged diligence that he used to solve crimes.

Poirot felt her body trembling and he pulled back a moment to press the fleshly lips apart again, giving her a small smile when her clit arose, throbbing and pink with blood. He slid two fingers into her soaked quim just as his lips enclosed the small nub and she screamed, cumming harder than she ever had before. Her muscles squeezed his fingers, the rich, thick honey oozing out and coating her ass crack as well as his mustache. Her body quivered for long moments afterward and he gently stroked again, slowly bringing her back down.

"Oh, Hercule." Another series of shudders racked her body as a smaller orgasm ripped through her, brought on by the agility of his thick fingers. "I've never ... I've never ... "

His mouth captured hers again, delving deeply into her warmth and melding it with his own. "I'm not finished yet."

"Please, Hercule. I want to feel you inside me." Joceline met his eyes and pulled his mouth back down, licking some of her cream from his upper lip.

"Maybe it is I who should make you beg ... " Poirot smiled at the thought but he knew that it wouldn't happen. One of her hands was stroking his hard length through the fabric while the other worked on the buttons of his pants. He broke their kiss with a gasp when her hand found his hot flesh, the soft fingertips wrapping around his girth and caressing him. "Oh, Lina." A growl followed the words as her lips covered the head of his cock, her tongue sliding into the wide slit.

She wasted no time in taking his entire length into her mouth, letting her tongue travel all over his steely rod while her hands pushed the pants and underwear off. He seemed embarrassed about the size of his belly but she made him feel at ease, nipping and licking a trail up the sides after running her tongue around his belly button. Finally, her mouth met his again and she moaned at the feeling of their naked bodies together, the head of his penis butting against the top of her slit.

Poirot gently turned her over, his lips raining kisses on her neck and cheeks. She felt so good, he thought, his prick gliding up and down in her wet slit. Her body tensed and her breath hissed out as he repeated the action until she was so wet that his cock was covered. "Lina ... " He felt her change position, felt her hips cant slightly and then, he was sliding inside her. He had to close his eyes because just the sight of her lovely face in rapture was enough to make him lose it. Hastings' words came back to him. The look in her eyes when she's about to cum ... 

Joceline whimpered, biting her bottom lip. He was inside her, deep inside her and she was cumming just from his entrance. If this was just the beginning, she was scared. His soft lips crossed the bridge of her nose, his mustache tickling her ear. "Look at me, Lina." Her eyes flicked open, meeting his and almost immediately filled with tears at the love reflected in his. He began to move, leaving her with an empty feeling until he filled her again, making her skin tingle.

He felt as if he'd died and gone to heaven. She was so soft and wet and her body responded so wonderfully to him. Because she's with you, you twit! He kept her eyes locked to his as he slid in and out of her soaking hole, enticing her to move with him. Her arms looped around his neck, pulling his mouth down as her hips flexed upward, drawing him deeper inside. Poirot groaned and grasped her legs, drawing them from around his waist to on top of his shoulders, grunting as he started to drill her harder. She responded by grabbing the headboard and whimpering at each thrust, momentarily closing her eyes and moaning as three separate orgasms shook her.

"Lina." She heard his whisper and pulled him down into a long kiss, sucking his tongue into her mouth as another glorious orgasm ripped through her, taking him, too. His body shook as he emptied his balls into her, his cock pumping into her milky slit. Exhausted and sated, he collapsed against her, his hot breath tickling her neck and she pulled her legs down.

"Hercule?" He raised his head slowly, meeting her eyes. "That was wonderful."

"For me also." He shivered as his soft cock slipped from her cum-filled box and he wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. He wasn't sure what to say. He felt so many different things that he felt compelled to give a voice to but ... he didn't want to frighten her away. 

"You beg very well."

Poirot laughed, nuzzling her cheek. "Are you sure I'm completely forgiven?"

Joceline's breath hitched at the dark notes in his voice and the sensual feel of his lips on her neck. "Mmmm. Maybe not entirely." She touched his cheek, softly drawing her fingertips against his heated skin. "Want to take a shower and find out?"

* * * * *

The phone was ringing and Poirot wanted to ignore it. He was so contented just now that he didn't want any part of the world to intrude. He had cum four times in the spanse of a few hours and his body was still tingling from the last time. He would never have imagined that sex could be this good. Now he understood why people did certain things for sex. He would definitely kill for Joceline and he would most definitely give his life for her.

"Are you going to answer that?"

Poirot tightened his arms around her, drawing her trembling body closer and dropping a kiss on her forehead. "I don't want to."

"It might be important."

"They can leave a message with the front desk."

Joceline smiled, running her fingers through his soft chest hair and stroking his belly. "This is not like you, Hercule. You're usually very meticulous."

"Did you not find me meticulous a few minutes ago?"

She gave him a gentle squeeze. "I'm not talking about that and you know it."

"Yes, I do know it, dear Lina." He heaved a huge sigh, giving her another kiss. "And I know I must answer it." Releasing her, he leaned over and picked up the receiver. "Hello? ... Ah, good afternoon, Chief Inspector Japp. ... You are here? What is one of Scotland Yard's most precious agents doing in Paris? ... Looking for me? Well, Japp, I am most flattered! ... Yes, if you will give me about fifteen minutes, I should be happy to join you and Hastings for lunch. ... Oui, au revoir."

"No."

"No, what? I haven't even asked you a question yet."

Joceline snuggled closer, secretly grinning as she felt his cum leaking from her cunt. "I don't want to get up. I don't want to leave this bed. I want to make love until I fall asleep."

"Well, you're not far from sleep now."

"I can't help it. You've worn me out."

"I have to meet the chief inspector and Hastings downstairs for lunch. Why don't you stay here and take a nap?"

"And you'll wake me up later?"

"And I'll wake you up later."

"And you'll make love to me again?"

"Oh, yes." Poirot breathed, bending to kiss her soundly. "I will make love to you until you're hungry for dinner."

Joceline laughed, sighing as he pulled himself out of her embrace. His hands lightly traveled over her skin before he tucked her in, pausing to rub his fingertip along the soft line of her cheek down to her jaw. "I will miss you, Hercule."

A pulse of adrenalin burst in his chest, hearing her drowsy words with a heart overflowing with love. Those tender words brought visions to mind; visions of arriving home to her open arms, of watching her perform with the knowledge that she belonged to him, of his name on her lips as they made love, as she came, covering him with her pussy cream. Sharing breakfasts, lunches and dinners. Walking in the park. Perhaps he would buy a cottage in the country and spend some sort of retirement with her, basking in the warmth of her love. Suddenly, perfection and solving crimes meant nothing compared to the five words that she'd just uttered.

"I promise not to be gone too long."

"Don't worry about me." She half-turned, then pulled him down, rubbing her tongue lazily against his in a warm kiss. "As long as you want me, I will always be waiting for you." Her eyelids drooped as her exhaustion caught up with her. "Always."

Poirot arose and quickly showered, dressing in just eleven minutes and managing to look sartorially splendid. Before he left, he once again gazed at the beautiful black woman who was sleeping peacefully in his bed, amazed at the fact that she cared for him. If he was given a chance, any chance, to have a life filled with love, he would do whatever he had to to ensure that chance.

"I shall always return, mon amour." Poirot whispered and doffing his hat, he quietly left the room.

* * * * *

Hastings and Japp were smiling conspiratorially when Poirot arrived at their table. Both men sipped their beverages quietly, listening as the detective ordered a drink and expectantly turned to them.

"You're right." The chief inspector said at length, grabbing a cucumber sandwich and chewing thoughtfully. "He does look like a bloke that's had some."

"Hastings!" 

Poirot's friend blushed fiercely. "I didn't tell him anything, Poirot. He guessed."

"He is not that good of a guesser." Poirot hissed angrily, unfolding his napkin and placing it on his lap. "I will thank you not to speak of my business, Hastings."

Hastings and Japp broke into laughter that soon erased the serious look from the Belgian's face. Suddenly, they were schoolboys, ruthlessly jabbing their mate about his new girl. Poirot had never experienced that before and found himself red-faced and giddy, lifting his glass with a huge grin. 

"I take it that you've solved your earlier problem."

"Oui."

"Problem? What problem?"

Before Hastings could answer the inquisitive Chief Inspector, Poirot spoke up. "So how can I help you, Chief Inspector Japp?"

"I heard about the break-in at Miss Tarrant's apartment. Ghastly!" Poirot and Hastings shook their heads in response. "Why would someone want to do that to her?"

"That, I do not know, Chief Inspector. I do know that it was extremely upsetting for her to see such a thing."

"How is she now?"

"Very well." Poirot stated. "She is a very strong woman."

"No doubt about that." Hastings said with a smile.

"Well, as long as she's in your care, I know that I won't have to worry." Japp took a swig of his beer, pausing to wipe the foam from his mustache. "There's another problem. Sister Lilia has disappeared."

"Really!" Poirot momentarily ignored his friend's outburst. "Two murders and a disappearance."

"This is why I came to find you, Poirot, and why I need your help." Japp took another swallow. "My superiors are angry that I haven't solved these murders and they're threatening to take my job if I don't do something about it. The only reason they paid for this trip is because of what happened to Miss Tarrant."

"I see."

"Poirot, it would be beneficial for the chief inspector to see the scene of the crime, don't you think?"

"Absolutement." Poirot finished his drink and whipped the napkin from his lap. "Shall we?"

"Hey! What about lunch?"

The great detective gave Japp a generous smile. "I am filled to the brim, mes amis. I have no need of sustenance just now. Why don't we visit Joceline's apartment?" Poirot checked his watch, a secret smile forming on his lips. "I have a dinner appointment that I cannot be late to."



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 09



***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

The problem of the double murder and the nun's disappearance plagued Poirot. His mind worked like a well-oiled clock spring, winding and coiling, meticulously keeping the clues moving through his head as he worked the puzzle. He was close. He knew he was close but something still eluded him. As usual, thoughts of Joceline intruded and warmth flooded his entire face. Was this what love felt like? Did it make you want to scream out her name in the middle of a crowded street? Would your cock harden at the thought of the touch of her lips and the silky skin of her body against yours? 

If so, that was what Poirot was feeling. He wanted to shout aloud in happiness. He wanted to skip and sing and ... mon Dieu! What is happening to me? He checked his watch, hurrying Japp and Hastings along. He had been away from Joceline for nearly five hours and the urge to make love to her was ruling him like an addiction. He found such solace in her arms, such quiet comfort in the sound of her slow and even breathing as she lay sleeping next to him, such emotion in her kiss and her touch. Lina.

He parted with Hastings and the Chief Inspector, leaving them downstairs while he hurried back up to his love nest. A feeling of dread met him as he briskly strode to his door, finding the portal wide open.

"Lina?"

The bed was empty, the sheets partially pulled onto the floor as if someone had been dragged from them. No, not someone. Joceline. Fear fed his panic as he moved from room to room, noticing a broken item here or an item out of place there. Joceline was gone. Someone had kidnapped her. 

His hands smoothed the still-scented sheets, tears coursing down his cheeks. He had no idea how long he sat there before Hastings found him. "Poirot! Poirot, where is she?"

"She's gone, mon ami. Someone has taken her."

* * * * *

"Will he be all right?"

Hastings gazed at his friend, horrified at the lifeless state of his friend. "I don't know, Japp. I've never seen him like this before."

"Maybe I should talk to him." Chief Inspector Japp didn't wait for a positive response from Hastings before heading over to where Poirot sat. 

Japp had never seen the great detective like this. He sat silently on the chair, staring at the empty bed, oblivious to the officers that moved around him, collecting evidence. His gaze remained focused and steady, his hands tightly gripping the silver end of his cane and his eyes silvery with tears.

"Poirot?" The chief inspector pulled up a chair next to his friend. "Poirot, are you all right?"

"No." The word was so quiet that Japp almost missed it.

"We'll find her, Poirot. You know we'll find her."

"Alive? I am not so sure, mon ami."

"Why not? Since when has the famous Hercule Poirot ever doubted himself?"

"Since the famous Hercule Poirot fell in love."

That revelation brought everything into sharp focus for the Scotland Yard agent. "Poirot, you can't just sit here."

"What am I to do, Japp?" His normally strong voice wavered with sadness. "What am I to do?"

"Do you want them to win?" He saw a flicker of anger appear in Poirot's eyes. "Sitting here and doing nothing is allowing them to win." He leaned closer. "And if you love her, if you truly love her, you would not let them win. She would not want you to let them win."

The overwhelming sadness was partly replaced by anger; anger that was fueled by the thought of someone else's hands on her body and the fear that was in her heart. He felt, no, he knew that she wasn't dead. He would have felt that from her, he firmly believed that. Poirot closed his eyes against the tears that burned in his eyes and gritted his teeth.

"Chief Inspector!"

The head officer came striding over, gingerly holding an envelope. He handed it to Japp. "This was left at the desk downstairs."

Japp gave the envelope a once over, then handed it to Poirot. "It's addressed to you."

Poirot wasted no time in ripping the linen paper open and his face paled at the contents, which he read aloud. "Monsieur Poirot, do not attempt to find Miss Tarrant. She will be returned unharmed to you in four months' time if you follow these instructions. If, at any time, you attempt to find and rescue her, we will kill her."

Japp, Hastings and Poirot looked at each other. "Where do we start first?" Hasting queried.

"Beaufort Estate." Poirot spat, his features hardening with ire.

"Why?"

"Because, Hastings," Poirot stood, retrieving his hat. "Lord Wilmouth's elections are four months away."

* * * * *

Before leaving France, Japp phoned ahead and mobilized a small army of men to surround Beaufort Estate and to shadow the duke, his son and the duke's wife, Florence until they could arrive. His officers reported that the duke and his wife were at the manse along with a few servants. The son had left early and was still in a meeting with his campaign advisor.

"So, what do you want me to do?" Japp turned to Poirot and Hastings. "We can't stay here all night."

"No, we cannot, Chief Inspector. On that, we both agree." Poirot took a deep breath, desperately trying to calm his nerves. "If I am correct, my Lina is somewhere inside that mansion. Two murders have already been committed and I highly doubt that Duke Wilmouth wants any more attention."

"How do you know that?"

Poirot ignored Japp for a moment, his thoughts on Joceline. "Let us wait for the son to appear, then all shall be revealed."

The minutes passed slowly while Poirot and Hastings waited in a car, Poirot silently lost in his thoughts and Hastings silently lost in his uncertainty. "Poirot, are you sure about this? Are you sure that she hasn't been harmed?"

"Yes, I am sure that she hasn't been harmed."

"How do you know?"

Poirot kept his gaze centered on Japp, watching him instruct his subordinates. "Because I feel her in here." The detective tapped his chest. "I have been so wrong in everything I've done concerning her. Japp had to convince me to fight for her. Why couldn't I know to fight for her myself?"

"Poirot, you are fantastic at solving crimes but, to put it in your words, you aren't using your little gray cells." Hastings met his friend's gaze. "Simply put, it's fear."

"Fear? Poirot is afraid of nothing!"

"Except losing her." He let his words hang. "Except admitting, finally admitting to yourself that she means everything to you. That you can't live without her. For you, Poirot, It's the fear of knowing that someone has finally cracked your hard exterior."

Poirot glared at him for a long moment, then softly spoke. "Hastings, you are my friend. Do you not feel that you have 'cracked' my exterior?"

"As a friend, yes. But this is different. This is love. You've had several friends over the years and will continue to have them but love is different. You're lucky, Poirot." His usually strong voice grew thin. "You've been blessed to discover love."

The detective heard the change in his friend's voice. "It will come for you, too, mon ami."

Hastings blinked unexpected tears away. "Thanks for the sentiment, Poirot, but I don't think so. I've looked for so long that ... "

"Poirot!" Japp interrupted, pulling the car's door open impatiently. "Lord Wesley is back."

Poirot pulled his gloves on tighter, his actions contradicting the fact that his stomach was tied into knots. "Then let us pay a visit."

* * * * *

Duke Wilmouth was happy to see Poirot and Hastings when they entered the library but when he saw Japp and a group of officers following the Scotland Yard chief inspector, his merry smile quickly faded.

"Ah, I thought this was a social visit."

"Not quite." Poirot forced a smile, setting his hat, gloves and cane on a small table, then turned to the butler. "Would you please call the duchess and Lord Wilmouth in to join us?"

Jarrett Wilmouth's terse words stopped the butler at the door. "Is that necessary?"

"Not just necessary but required." Japp interjected with a bit of provincial swagger. "Get them."

It took a few minutes for Florence Wilmouth and Wesley Wilmouth to join them and both looked confused and fearful as they took seats in the expansive library, their eyes plastered on Poirot. "Good evening."

"Good evening, Mr. Poirot. To what do we owe the honor of this visit?"

"Murder." The Belgian said, his eyes boring into the younger Wilmouth.

"Murder? Someone's been murdered at Beaufort?"

"Not yet." Poirot arose slowly. "That is what I am here to prevent."

"Poirot, what does murder have to do with my family?"

"It has everything to do with your family, Duke Wilmouth." His hard eyes visually stabbed the man. "And everything to do with Beaufort Estate." Poirot gave a characteristic smile. "But I digress. Let me start at the beginning, with the tale of a beautiful, innocent woman. Twenty-three years ago, a woman came to work at Beaufort Estate. Here she met a man, a man who took her breath away. A man who made false promises in order to gain her trust and to gain entrance to her bed. As a result of their tryst, she became pregnant and of course, she couldn't keep the baby without scandal. So she went to St. Marie-Thérèse's Orphanage and Day Home and gave birth to her child. She wanted him to have a good home so she gave him up for adoption, left the service of Beaufort Estate and began her musical career."

"Miss Tarrant?" Hastings breathed and Poirot nodded.

"Yes. Miss Joceline Tarrant. You had an argument with Joceline the evening of the Fall Gathering, did you not, Duke Wilmouth?"

Wilmouth looked uncomfortable, glancing back and forth between his wife and his son. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Would you care to tell us what it was about?"

"It's none of your bloody business, you ... you frog!"

Poirot again forced a smile but it did not travel to his eyes. "I am not a 'frog', monsieur. I am Belgian."

"It's still none of your business!"

"Ah, but it is because it concerns Miss Tarrant."

The duke's handsome features creased with disgust. "She's got you wrapped around her little finger now, eh?" His anger increased with each step he took toward the detective. "Smiled at you with those perfect white teeth and got you all wrapped up, eh, Poirot?"

Before Poirot could reply, Japp stepped forward with one of his men. "I think you'd better have a seat, Duke." The duke stared down the chief inspector and reluctantly took a seat on the settee next to his bewildered son. "Go on, Poirot."

"These murders have been puzzling me for some time. Two sisters at an orphanage, another missing. One room ransacked but surprisingly, nothing is missing. The other room in order, except for a blotter that had been moved. And the third room ... in perfect condition." He took a breath, touching the bottom edges of his mustache in thought. "Very puzzling until the note."

"Note?" Duchess Florence Wilmouth spoke up, dabbing at her eyes. 

"Yes. Someone was so kind as to send me a note. You see, Miss Tarrant has also gone missing and the note stated that she would be released unharmed in four months' time. It occurred to me that you would be the most interested in seeing her disappear."

"Me? Why me?" Wilmouth asked.

"Because you can't risk anyone finding out that Lord Wilmouth is the child that you and Miss Tarrant. At least not before he wins his seat in the House."

The blood drained from the light olive features of Wesley Wilmouth and he turned his horrified stare toward his father, whose florid features were rubescent with rage. "Father? Is it true?" Father's eyes avoided the eyes of the son. "Father, is it true?"

"Yes." Wilmouth hissed, focusing his vitriol on Poirot.

"You are the illegitimate son of Duke Jarrett Wilmouth and Miss Joceline Tarrant. I'm sure that the duke has made every effort to ensure your legitimacy through documentation and the work of his overpaid solicitor but that wasn't enough for him. He was on business in Manchester when he saw the flyers for Miss Tarrant's band and his sordid past came back to haunt him. He worried that his long-kept secret would be revealed and his son's chances would be ruined so he began to leave notes at each stop, notes that warned Miss Tarrant of imminent danger if she was to continue the tour."

"But she continued any way." Hastings piped up.

"Yes, such is the mettle of Miss Tarrant. She came to me with those notes, expressing her worry and I gave her my word that I would see that no harm would come to her. So ... " Poirot stepped directly in front of the duke. "Whomever is her enemy is also mine."

"Get out of my house, Poirot!"

"Not quite yet, Duke Wilmouth. I think Mr. Poirot has a point to make."

"Indeed, Chief Inspector Japp." The detective strode over to the silent wife of the duke. "But there's more, isn't there, duchess?" The woman averted her face, still dabbing at her eyes. "You knew who Miss Tarrant was when you hired her band to perform at the Fall Gathering. You wanted to see her up close and you were ... intrigued to say the least."

"Intrigued?"

"Joceline Tarrant is a beautiful woman, much more beautiful than you are but that wasn't the problem, was it? The problem was that you wanted her for yourself."

"WHAT!" Jarrett and Wesley's voices echoed in chorus.

"After Sister Bernadetta was murdered, Hastings and I had cause to travel to the orphanage and I noticed the list of contributors on the way out and was surprised to see your name there. Knowing the duke's past history with the orphanage, he would not want his name associated with the place so I knew at once that he was not the contributor. It was you."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Of course you do. You're a follower of Lesbos, yes? Women who love women. You discovered that long ago when you and the Duke traveled there to adopt young Wesley. In fact, you've always wanted to be a man. You thought I did not recognize you on the train nor at the restaurant when I had lunch with the chief inspector and Hastings. Mannish clothes cannot hide feminine wiles, madame."

"This is outrageous!" The duke fumed, spitting in his anger. "Chief Inspector, I want this Belgian out of my house immediately or I'll report you to your superiors!"

"You feel free to do whatever you like, duke." Japp's hand arrested Wilmouth's as it reached the phone's receiver. "After Poirot finishes."

Wilmouth glared at the policeman angrily and retook his seat, his gaze searing Poirot. The detective shrugged off the look with a nod of thanks to the chief inspector and he turned back to the duchess. "You began with Sister Bernadetta. She had been your lover before she joined the orphanage but through her hard work, she had become aware of your husband's impropriety and demanded that you either pay her or take her with you."

"Take her with? Where was she planning to go?"

"Paris, Hastings. She engineered the murders to look as if the Duke was the culprit. The semen left in the women and the missing file that contained the adoption information. All of this was designed to coincide with Wilmouth's business travels and after the election, evidence implicating him would be forwarded to the authorities and Madame Wilmouth would be free. Free to engage in forbidden love with her soulmate."

"Soulmate?"

"Oui, Japp. The one person who shared her love of being a man, Sister Lilia."

"The missing nun?"

"The very same, Hastings. It was she that killed Sister Bernadetta looking for the file her lover so desperately needed and it was she who killed Sister Evangeline, who tried to hide the papers to protect her dear friend. The hand prints that Hastings and I found were small enough to have been made by a woman and only someone who was already inside the house could have known her way around."

"But that doesn't make any sense! The semen ... "

"Ah, yes! The semen." Poirot nodded his head, as if just remembering. "That was easy enough. Sister Lilia was having an affair with Jonathan Hawkins, the security guard and he was adamant about using protection. Thus, when he ejaculated, the semen was caught in the rubber and she spirited it away."

"How do you know that she was having an affair with Hawkins?"

"She told Sister Evangeline who told me." Japp spoke up in answer to Hastings' question. 

"Indeed and with that evidence, the duchess and Sister Lilia could live, as you say, high on the hog, while the Duke was sentenced to hang for the murders and Lord Wesley, fueled by his father's money, could win his seat and give Florence the attention she so desperately craved."

The sweet, unassuming Florence Wilmouth turned angry eyes upon Poirot, her waspish mouth curling against yellowed teeth, lips forming each word succinctly. "I wish you'd die!"

A scream rent the air and two gunshots rang out. And then ... silence.



Poirot's Chronicles - Hercule Ch. 10



***** A great many people have undertaken to portray Agatha Christie's Belgian detective, Hercule Poirot, but in my opinion, none has done it as well as David Suchet, star of ITW productions of Poirot. It is his image that I use as my visual and those of Hugh Fraser (Captain Hastings), Pauline Moran (Miss Lemon) and Philip Jackson (Chief Inspector Japp). ENJOY! *****

Everyone stood stock still in the room, all eyes trained on the woman who was rapidly crumpling to the floor, the knife in her hand clanging as it bounced on the floor, harmlessly pinwheeling towards its intended victim. Poirot briefly glanced down at it, flicked it away with flip of his foot then returned his gaze to the woman standing in the doorway. The old maid, Glynnis, slowly lowered the smoking weapon, her shaking hands losing their grip and causing the barrel to swing lazily. Japp moved forward, quickly snatching the gun from her hands, then stepped over to the body of Sister Lilia, checking for a pulse.

"She's dead."

A wail went up from Florence Wilmouth who leaped from the chair, throwing herself at the dead nun's side and pulling her lifeless body into an embrace. "You killed her!"

"She was going to 'urt mister Poirot. I couldn't let that 'appen." Glynnis smiled through her tears. "Not as nice as 'e's been to the lot of us."

"Glynnis, where's Joceline?"

"Miss Tarrant? She's 'ere?"

"I know where she is." Wesley Wilmouth stood, clearly shaken by the death but showing the mettle that he'd been born with. "Mum had told me that the South wing was being re-decorated. There's no better place on this estate to keep a hostage."

"Please. Show me."

Wilmouth turned toward the opposite door, passing by his weeping mother who grabbed at his pants leg, leaving a bloody smudge there. "Wesley, darling, please understand."

"I do understand." The young man said evenly. "I'm going to see my mother."

Poirot flexed his cheek muscle and gave a curt nod to Japp, who quickly instructed his men to arrest the duke and duchess. Lord Wilmouth strode briskly down the hall, up two short flights of stairs and down a long hallway, the end of which opened into the South wing. When Wesley tried the door, he found it locked.

"Knock it down!"

Three officers ran to carry out Japp's directive and within minutes, the ornate French doors lay in splinters on the floor and with Hastings' help, Poirot tramped over the shards of wood, his heart pounding in his chest. 

Joceline Tarrant lay on the expansive bed, her face puffy and streaked with tears, her arms and legs tied to the bedposts. Poirot raced to the bedside, carefully removing the scarf from her mouth and pressing his lips against her chapped ones. "Lina. Lina, wake up. Wake up, my love."

Poirot ignored the shocked look on Japp's face, instead concentrating on the small tic in her cheek and the long black lashes that slowly fluttered open. Her eyes crossed, then focused on his face, filling with tears. "Hercule."

"Do not speak. Poirot is here to take you home." 

Joceline tried to smile but the pain that racked her limbs was too much. "Yes, Hercule. Please take me home."

* * * * *

Four months later

"Do you have the flowers, Hastings?"

"Yes, Poirot."

"Bon. Do you have the chocolates, Hastings?"

"Yes, Poirot."

"Bon. Do you have the ... "

"Yes, Poirot. I have everything. Relax!"

Poirot straightened his bow tie for the twentieth time and checked to see that his shoes were still properly shined and that the crease in his pants was still razor-sharp. "I cannot relax, Hastings. She is coming home."

"I know this but it won't help her if you've suffered an attack while waiting for her." Poirot huffed. "Now, calm down. Here comes the train now."

The locomotive trundled into the station in a cloud of wispy smoke and squealing brakes and almost immediately, a huge crowd flooded the platform, bearing banners and hand-painted signs that welcomed the renowned Joceline Tarrant back home. Poirot and Hastings stood near the doors, watching the festivities in disbelief. 

After the rescue, Wesley Wilmouth had gone on TV, announcing to anyone who cared to hear that this beautiful black woman was his mother. The responses at first were disheartening. Bigots and racists alike spewed their hatred out but the strength that sustained mother also coursed through the son and Wesley persevered. Joceline accompanied him on each stop, wooing voters to their side with her sultry songs and her warm smiles and as a result of their hard work, Wesley won the seat. Now she was returning as she'd promised, to him, to a life with her man, Hercule Poirot.

"Wow! She's become rather popular, hasn't she?"

"Yes, mon ami." Poirot put his best smile forward, observing the gigantic roar that erupted when the train door opened and Joceline stepped forward, a wide-brimmed beige hat adorned with a peacock feather sitting on her head. She raised a hand in acknowledgment and the roar swelled again when she unleashed her stunning smile upon the waiting crowd. He noticed that her eyes were searching the sea of faces and when she found him, her smile brightened, if that was possible.

"I think she's found us."

It took several minutes for the conductor and his staff to clear an aisle for her to reach the building and she happily threw herself into his arms, crying in sheer joy. "Oh, Hercule! I'm so glad to see you!"

"Not as happy as I am." He whispered softly, embracing her tightly. "I see you've brought some friends along."

Joceline laughed, throwing her head back and grinning at Hastings. "And I see you've brought one along yourself." She released Poirot to give Hastings a heartfelt squeeze. "Hello, Captain Hastings."

"Hello yourself!" Hastings handed her the roses and the chocolates. "Welcome home!"

"Can we get out of here?" Joceline shouted above the din. "I'd really like to go home."

"And where is home?" Poirot murmured, kissing her ear. 

"Anywhere that you are, dear Hercule."

"Bon." He held out his arm, sighing when she slid hers through. "Then let us go."

* * * * *

Miss Lemon hoisted the last glass of champagne, her cheeks rosy and her arm around Chief Inspector Japp. "To Joceline and Hercule!"

A chorus of "Hear, hear!" went up and Poirot happily watched his friends drink to the lovely woman on his arm. Hastings leaned over with a wobble and planted a sloppy kiss on Joceline's cheek, drawing a beaming smile from her. Everyone drank deeply, then set the glasses down on the silver tray that Miss Lemon had brought.

"All right, everyone! Time to go!" She hefted the tray, herding Japp and Hastings toward the door. "I'm sure that Mr. Poirot would like some privacy." She grabbed Joceline's hand and led her into the kitchen, showing her a prepared tray of sliced cheese, cold cuts and fruit, along with two bottles of chilled champagne. "For later." Her conspiratorial smile was echoed by Joceline's and the two women hugged. "I'll expect you to repay the favor for me one day."

"I am completely in your debt."

Miss Lemon smiled. "Thank you for making him happy."

"Thank you for allowing me to do so."

"Miss Lemon?" Hastings' voice interrupted them and both returned to the outer hallway where Poirot waited, holding her coat up. Miss Lemon slid into the article of clothing, gave Poirot a quick kiss on the cheek and left with Japp and Hastings.

"You are blessed with kind friends, Hercule."

"Oui." Poirot locked the door and extinguished the lights, maneuvering her towards the back room, adjacent to the bedroom. Joceline gasped when she saw what he'd done there. "But I am doubly blessed when it comes to you."

"Oh, Hercule!" He had filled his den with white roses and creamy tapers that spread their warm glow across the room. A large bearskin rug rested in front of the fireplace and a bottle of champagne rested in a silver bucket, its shiny face partially frosted. It reminded her of ... "Our ball!"

Poirot smiled, clearly excited that she had remembered. The beauty of the love reflected in her eyes suddenly made him apprehensive and his entire body felt warm. "I didn't think that I could be any happier than I was that day, Lina. I, Hercule Poirot, was dancing around the room with the most beautiful woman I'd ever seen in my life," His eyes silvered with tears. "And that beautiful woman wanted me!" Poirot fought the urge to sob as his emotions threatened to get the best of him. He took a moment to compose himself. "Mon cher, I have lived my life strictly by the book and as a result, I have been a lonely man. I never gave a thought to having love in my life. I never thought that anyone would want to love a man like Hercule Poirot."

"Hercule ... "

"No, Lina. Please." He took a deep breath and was encouraged by the gentle squeeze of her hands on his. "Let me finish. It's ...it's important."

"All right." Joceline blinked her tears away, her heart thumping in her chest as she came to the realization that something special was happening here. She let her tone of voice and the words she spoke soothe his nerves as tenderly as her fingertips on his face. "Go on, Hercule." 

His past flew through his mind: the dead eyes of murdered women, the angry eyes of conniving females and the coquettish glances of flirtatious women floated like wayward logs in his stream of consciousness, reminding him of his constant fear of commitment, of the possibility that a female could do that to him. That and their subtle rejection had served to convince him that marital bliss was not in the cards for him. But now ... "I am not a handsome man, Lina." He laughed at his own expense. "I have always known that but I hoped that maybe one day, I would find a woman that was interested in my little gray cells." He paused, looking at her. "And then I met you."

Joceline smiled, her dark brown eyes overflowing and releasing tears that he kissed away. "Hercule."

"From the very start, you overlooked my less-than-tantalizing looks and instead, focused on my emotions, bringing out a part of Hercule Poirot that even Poirot didn't know existed. You've taken every part of me and made me into a whole man." He slowly dropped to one knee, trying to avoid her tearing eyes but unable to draw himself from their luminous beauty. "My dear, wonderful Lina, you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would do me the great honor of becoming my wife." He fished a blue velvet box out of the pocket of his smoking jacket and held it up to her. "Please."

"Oh, Hercule!" Joceline dropped to her knees, bursting into tears and embracing him. "I never thought ... I never hoped ... "

"Oh, but you had to, my darling!" Poirot pulled back, a genuine smile on his lips. "After making love to you, did you think that I could continue to live without you?" His heart swelled at the look of disbelief in her eyes. "Lina, you own every inch of this Belgian, heart, body and soul." His lips moved to within inches of hers. "You need only say the words to make it forever."

"Oh, yes, Hercule," Joceline couldn't stop her tears from falling. "Yes, I'll be your wife."

* * * * *

It was the event of the season. Invitations went out eight months after the engagement announcement, requesting several of London's upper crust to attend, including Winston Churchill and some of his political contemporaries. 

Captain Hastings, Miss Lemon and Chief Inspector Japp were also asked to attend and held prominent places in the ceremony. Poirot had asked his friend, Hastings, to perform the duties of Best Man and Japp walked the eminent detective down the aisle, sword held high in ultimate respect and deposited him at his appointed spot. Miss Lemon served as her maid of honor while the international star Josephine Baker serenaded the awaiting audience.

Poirot forgot to breathe when she walked down the aisle, his bouquet of calla lilies and white lavender sprigs clutched in her gloved hands. As she approached, he raised the veil, gazing into the deep brown eyes that threatened to hold him captive and smiled as she gave a lily a small kiss. His pulse raced, his ears rung and in no time at all, the minister was telling him that he could kiss his bride. He doffed his hat, leaned forward and to the cheers and whistles of the audience, he claimed his bride with a kiss from his heart.

The reception lasted well into the early hours of the morning and Poirot and Joceline found themselves in his decorated apartment, sharing yet another glass of champagne and giggling over Poirot's ill-made attempt to carry her over the threshold. She watched his face light up in merriment, clearly remembering the seriousness written on his features when they first met in the café. He seemed like such a different person now. And it's all because of me. Without thinking, she reached out and ran a finger along his wet bottom lip, instantly drawing his solemn attention. 

"No." She whispered. "Don't stop smiling, Hercule. You're so ... beautiful when you smile."

"I cannot smile when you take my breath away, Lina."

"Then perhaps I should remedy that." She picked up a black olive, broke it in half and plastered it under her nose. His eyes twinkled and he snorted as one side started sliding downward and the giggling began anew. "I love you, Hercule." Joceline said softly. "Promise that you'll always laugh for me."

"I promise."

"Good." She pressed a slow, soft kiss to his cheek, her voice husky with passion. "Then it's time to make me your wife."

Poirot pulled her into his arms, crushing her body to his as his mouth gently moved over hers, his tongue sweeping inside and intertwining with hers. She moaned with an answering shiver, her arms snaking around his neck and her fingers running through his short hair. He reveled in the feel of her hands on his body, sliding down his back and stroking his thighs, making his cock plump under her fingers. He arose from their place in front of the fire and guided her into his bedroom, as always, smiling at the dried flowers in a vase on his nightstand.

"Oh, you kept the flowers!" Poirot nodded and watched as she left the room and returned with a few sprigs of lavender and two large calla lilies from her bouquet, replacing the dead flowers. When she turned to him, he could not help but smile, drawing her into his arms to prevent her from seeing the tears in his eyes. "Thank you, Hercule."

Poirot could not respond. His heart was filled to overflowing and he made sure that Joceline felt it. His hands sought the zipper hidden in her dress and descended downward, spreading the fabric open and tugging it off her shoulders. Her dark chocolate-nippled breasts slowly emerged and he bent to suckle each, rolling his tongue around the bumpy flesh until spongy nubs emerged, making her tremble. He pulled the dress farther down until she lifted her hips and completely slid out of it, leaving gartered white fishnet-covered legs and a tiny pair of lace underpants. 

She moved onto her back, opening her arms as he moved to lie on top of her, moaning into his mouth as his erection pressed anxiously against her pussy. "Please, Hercule, don't make me wait." Her hands traveled downward, fingers unbuttoning and pushing his pants off, then wrapping around his hard cock, rubbing lightly. "I want to feel you inside me, husband." Her endearment brought his eyes back to hers and she breathlessly watched them darken as his fingers looped in the panties, tugging them over her raised hips.

When she reached down to unhook the garters, he said, "No. Leave them," and proceeded to kiss his way down, across her stomach to her clean shaven snatch, purring happily. "Perfect." His whisper was quickly drowned by her cries of passion as he parted her already soaked lips and plunged his tongue inside her hole, laving upwards to tickle her button, then sliding down again. He loved the natural response of her body. There was no pretense or falsity; only pure, raw emotions that she eagerly shared. I am so lucky! Poirot arose, hastily pulled his shirt and pants completely off and knelt between her trembling legs.

"I now pronounce us ... " He moved up so that the pulsing purple head of his cock butted against her slick slit, then ever so gently, pressed inward, their hands intertwining. "Husband and wife."

Joceline closed her eyes, gasping at the sensation of being filled by him. "Oh, yes." She hissed, gazing into his fathomless eyes and shivering with the thrill of the unbridled lust she saw in the depths. Poirot kept moving forward until he was entirely sheathed in her warm, wet flesh and she brought her knees up, seating him even deeper. Oh, he felt so good! And he's mine! When he moved again, her breath left her in a long inhalation and gushed out when he slid back in. "Oh, yes, Hercule! Make me yours!"

The passion in her words sent flames skipping the length of his spine and he pinned her down, playfully nibbling her ears and neck while he found and set a steady rhythm, driving into her with a barely restrained ferocity that quickly had her screaming in orgasm. He gritted his teeth and steeled himself against the torturous rippling of her pussy walls, moving again only after she had calmed. A second, third and fourth orgasm came quickly for her and at the sound of his name on her lips, he allowed himself to cum, his cock swelling, then jerking as he deposited his seed in her leaking womb, shuddering with each ejaculation.

She threw her arms around him, welcoming his delicious weight as he recovered, mopping his brow with an edge of sheet and rubbing his back. Poirot slipped to the side, carrying her with him and wrapping his arms around her, his lips in her hair. A keen sense of contentment stole over him as she snuggled into the side of his body, her hand gently caressing his belly and he sighed deeply. After solving hundreds of mysteries and murders, he realized that he had solved the most important of all: the mystery of love.

Slipping into blissful sleep, his sated wife in his arms with her hand over his heart, he pressed a kiss to her swollen lips and gave her a squeeze. "I love you, Lina." 

And Poirot left the world behind.