Pastegasm - Widow and Whiskey

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[A knock on a door. High heels on hardwood floor: The unhurried gait of a woman who knows how to look good when she walks. A classic Femme Fatale. The door opens, letting in the noise from outside. Birds and passing car traffic, but old cars. 1940s cars. ]
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Hello, can I help you? 
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(Surprised) Detective? I– ah– of course, I’m sorry. Please, come inside. 
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[She steps back from the door and allows him in and closes it behind him, before leading him deeper into the house.]
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We can talk in the office. 
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Here. Have a seat. Can I get you a drink? I’m afraid I’ve sent the staff home for the week, what with my husband’s passing. Pardon the clutter. I just wanted some privacy for a bit, you understand. I’m able to manage a whisky or a martini, though– at least my husband always thought so. 
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Of course. 
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[She turns to the liquor cabinet to fix him a drink. While she does, he takes a seat on a squeaking desk chair.]
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(surprised) Oh! Sorry, I didn’t expect you to sit there. (icy and turned away again) Most guests don’t choose the seat behind the desk. 
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[She mixes the drink ungracefully, ice clattering in the glass and whisky sloshing in carelessly. She sets the drink down on the desk in front of him more forcefully than is required]
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(Flatly, repeating what he’s said, not in agreement) My husband’s chair. Of course.  
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(Brusquely) Can I ask you what brought you here today, detective? 
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[The ice tinkles in the glass as the detective drains it before speaking]
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My husband? I don’t understand, is there a problem with the will… the probate? 
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(She laughs) My husband died of natural causes. A heart attack the coroner said. I don’t know who you think you’re going to convict of his murder. God? 
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You think *I* killed him? I *loved* my husband, detective. Why… *How* could I have murdered him? 
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A “gut” feeling. Well, what can I do to set your gut at ease, detective? 
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What would I have gained by his death? We were partners in everything. Marriage, yes, but also work. 
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Yes, work. I’m a scientist. I worked alongside him at the lab. 
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(she chuckles, darkly) Ah yes, of course. If a woman is smart– if you can even allow yourself to admit that a woman *can* be smart– she must also be a mousy, drab thing. A spinster. That’s what men like you think. These boxes you like to put us in, all false dichotomies: Smart or pretty. Rational or feeling. (emphasizing this one) Virgin or whore. 
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I have a doctorate, detective. I studied at ivys. I’m very good at what I do, even without wearing baggy clothes and unflattering glasses and hunching so I don’t take up space. Strange, isn’t it? But then, I bet you think Hedy Lamarr is just a pretty face. 
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Multiple patents in radio technology, actually. All self-taught, supposedly. She’s a marvel.
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You, on the other hand… I can’t see your logic. You think I killed him for his money? Read the will– most of it’s going to war charities. What’s my motive? 
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A lover? (she laughs) Let me know when you’ve found him. I’ve certainly never met him.
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What about you, detective? Do you have some drab little housewife at home– pretty enough to marry, not enough to be a temptation? Does she do your laundry, make your dinner? Is this just you being mad that I’m not in that same little box, or are you angry that you haven’t even been able to manage to lock down a drab little housewife? Not even the mousy girls from school could stand you? 
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Oh! Did I hit a nerve with that? (Not sorry at all) I’m so sorry. 
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I will repeat again, as clear as I can make it. I *loved* my husband, and your own coroner said he died of natural causes. It must be very boring indeed at the police station if you have so much free time you can go and harass young widows. I had no idea the city was so crime-free! 
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I think *I* have a gut feeling too– I think you’re here because you couldn’t get laid with a hundred dollar bill tied to your fly and intimidating a woman makes you feel like a big man. 
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[A squeak of the chair as he stands up sharply]
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(defiant) Are you gonna hit me, big man? I promise you, It won’t make me confess to whatever crime you’ve made up in your head. 
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(She exhales in a rush as she’s grabbed, bracing for the hit, but then instead: A passionate forceful kiss. She fights it.) 
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I don’t know what you think you’re doing but–
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(She’s kissed again. This time she acquiesces but it’s still a verbal battle.) 
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I must have really touched a nerve if you’re so eager to prove you know how to touch a woman, all evidence to the contrary. What’s the plan here– you fuck me so well I confess? If that’s your plan, you better get started. 
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[The two of them stagger back into the heavy wooden desk with a thump. Grappling and clothes rumpling.]
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Not acting how a widow is supposed to act? Was I supposed to answer the door in sackcloth and ashes? Am I supposed to never stop weeping? Have you ever lost someone, detective? That’s not how grief works. 
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No, if we’re doing this, detective. If we’re playing into your idea I’m just some loose woman, then *you’re* sitting on the desk. Sitting on MY desk, as this is MY office, not my husband’s. Those are my degrees on the wall. And I refuse to be beholden to whatever ineffectual hip thrusting you think counts as sex in my own office. 
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[his ass lands on the desk with a thump. The zip of his fly dropping fast, and the hurried shuffling of clothes being shoved out of the way]
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If I’m just the slut you think I am, I’m going to use you as a toy. After all, sluts have sex because they enjoy it. That feels hard for you to manage. 
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[A thump and clatter as she climbs up on the desk to ride him.] 
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(She sinks slowly down on his cock with a hiss and a moan)
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(Words punctuated between grunts as she bounces on him) You remind me of my late husband, you know, detective. Not the intelligence, of course, but that hidden arrogance. He hid it for so long. Claimed to admire me and my work, but beneath he was *seething*, just like you. 
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Does that feel like a confession? Maybe your mediocre cock is loosening my lips… or maybe I’m just confident. 
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(She laughs, sharply, and when she speaks it’s full of pity.) Oh detective, is that what you think? You’ve been watching too many movies. It’s not that I’m confident in my womanly wiles– I don’t think one quick little fuck will get you to fall in love with me and suddenly protect me despite my terrible crime. Although it might– you seem the type. 
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No, I’m confident in my genius. My husband at least appreciated that. I didn’t lie to you, you know. I *did* love him… but that quickly faded when I discovered he was taking the credit for all my work. Patents in his name going to secret accounts… I can only presume *he* had a mistress. I was always faithful– you were barking up the wrong tree there. 
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So, there’s your motive, detective. But, how did I do it? How did I murder a man who died of natural causes? 
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[Her bouncing gets more aggressive on top of him, wet slaps punctuating her words and the heavy wooden desk rocking a little]
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(She gets more aroused, the more details of her crimes are revealed, she’s turned on by the power of it, rather than whatever he’s doing. Her words are breathless.) You should have detected, detective. It was right there on the wall in front of you, the whole time. 
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My degrees: right on them it says pharmaceutical chemistry. Do you know how many things can give a man a heart attack that aren’t tested for as part of an autopsy? Easy enough to slip one in his nightly martini, and then, oh what a shame. He died in his sleep, his heart finally giving out. Probably some undetected congenital weakness. He was so young. So tragic. 
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No, you won’t arrest me, detective. Because of what I put in *your* drink. 
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[There is a brief struggle]
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Calm down, detective, the only death you’ll have will be a little one. Focus on getting your dick in the right place. Yes. There. (she moans)
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After all, a genius doesn’t let *two* corpses get found in her house in under a month. That *IS* too suspicious. 
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No, what I put in your drink is a clever little sedative I discovered that has a convenient side effect of just completely wiping out short term memories. Your eyes are dilated from far more than just your lust, so I know it’s taking effect. Feeling a little dizzy? Light headed, maybe? Motor control getting a little difficult? 
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That’s why I’m on top. You just need to sit there and I’ll do all the work. Just like my useless husband in his chemistry career. 
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(Close) God, who knew that the fear in the eyes of a man who has underestimated a woman was such an aphrodisiac? Your face! (She kisses him, messily, moaning through it.) You really thought… a good dicking… would make me confess? (she’s laughing, breathlessly, voice going high as her orgasm approaches.) Your gut may have been lucky, but the rest of you is such an idiot! 
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(She gets herself there. Pants against his shoulder for a bit and then chuckles.) All that fear, and you still managed to come. Men are so… simple. 
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[A thump and rattle as she climbs off the desk.] Now, you’re probably feeling pretty sleepy now, so I’ll just tuck you away– wouldn’t do to leave your dick out when I’m trying to play the innocent, would it? 
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[The zip of his fly]
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There you go. And I’ll just clean myself up a bit… 
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[Fabric sounds as she sets herself to rights, pulling her rucked up dress straight.]
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(She’s forcing her breath to slow and calm.) 
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[Abruptly, the thump of a body tumbling to the floor.]
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(she snorts) Goodnight. 
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(She takes a moment to settle herself. Pats down her clothing, takes a breath, and when she speaks again, she is a totally different character. Her voice is light– airy. A proper concerned housewife, no longer the femme fatale) 
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Oh dear!
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[Light slapping of the detective’s cheeks]
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Wake up! Wake up! Please wake up!
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Oh, goodness! Are you all right? You just took a tumble! Sounded like you smacked your head on the way down. Should I call an ambulance? You might be concussed!
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You’re sure? Careful getting up. Maybe it’s heatstroke– it’s a hot day. I’m sweating myself. 
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You don’t remember? Oh gosh, you should really get that checked out. You came in, we had a nice chat about my late husband, God rest his soul, I answered a few questions you had about the will and then you just… keeled right over! 
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Well, if you insist, I suppose I can’t stop you. Here, I’ll show you to the door. 
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[They walk to the front, and she opens it for him, letting the traffic noise back in.]
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Just… please take care of yourself, detective. Maybe find somewhere cool to rest. Oh! The new picture palace on Main Street just got air conditioning. Maybe take in an early show– I think they just got the new Hedy Lamarr picture. I’ve heard it’s great. 
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[The door closes]
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(She lets herself have an amused chuckle as the sound fades out)
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Widow and Whiskey

🔞 Adult Content Warning 🔞

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