Hasting's Heart's Desires
This is based off of Agatha Christie's "The Tragedy at Marsdon Manor" short story (aka I don't own it) which we were forced to read in English at the beginning of the year. If you don't know what this is about, basically there's a famous detective named Poirot and his sidekick Hastings who are investigating the death of this rich man, so suspect his wife. Afterwards, me and Michaela were making a few jabs at it and unknowingly creating a parody. This is the summary of our storytelling, without the ridiculous parts. The quotes are taken directly from the story, except towards the end of Part II. (You'll be able to tell)
Part I – To Marsdon Manor
It was at the scene of the crime; Poirot and his personal slave, me, were investigating. It was a relief to have a break from the deceptively decent and controlled man. Heh, controlled my ass. Literally. From the minute I arrived back in town, he cast those greedy French eyes on me as always.
"A la bonne heure, Hastings. I feared you would not have returned in time to accompany me," he cajoled, licking his lips.
"You are called away on a case then?" I quickly replied, choosing to ignore his usual dominance lecture.
"Yes, although I am bound to admit that, on the face of it, the affair does not seem promising. The Northern Union Insurance Company have asked me to investigate the death of a Mr. Maltravers who a few weeks ago insured his life with them for the large sum of fifty thousand pounds."
"Yes?" I said, much interested. For the moment he seemed too preoccupied with the case to think about how he was going to screw me that afternoon. He informed me of the details of the case.
We then traveled to the train station and Poirot requested a private compartment in the back, sending prickles of apprehension up my spine. Even on a case he could not spare his poor dog. I slowly followed him into the unit and, holding the door open for me, I walked through receiving a light squeeze on the buttocks. He locked the door behind him and started stripping down; I knew the routine well, but today I hoped he would be gentler, for I had heard of a pretty widow involved in the case.
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Well, he wasn't, and by the time I stepped off the train into Marsdon Leigh I had the urge to rub my poor aching ass, but there were ladies stepping off as well.
We visited the doctor, who himself must have been nearly completely frigid; and slammed the door in our faces before too many questions were asked. I did not pay great attention to detail for Poirot had commanded me to sit in a wooden chair a little in the corner of the room, and enjoyed watching me squirm with discomfort as a result of our recent business. The doctor, not facing my direction, remained oblivious. Poirot, as I had already concluded many times before, was an evil man. Once outside, Poirot inquired,
"And what do you think of Dr. Bernard, Hastings?"
"Rather an old ass," Like you, I thought contemptuously.
"Exactly. Your judgments of character are always profound, my friend."
I glanced at him uneasily, but he seemed perfectly serious. A twinkle, however, came to his eye, and he added slyly: "That is to say, when there is no question of a beautiful woman!"
I looked at him coldly.
We arrived at the manor, and were guided to a small morning room by a middle-aged parlor maid, who then retired to tell her mistress. About ten minutes time elapsed, during which I endured Poirot's annoying yet provocative prodding.
The door suddenly opened, and there upon the threshold stood a slender figure in widow's weeds.
Part II – Hasty Hastings
It was at the scene of the crime; Poirot and his personal slave, me, were investigating. Now, I cannot begin to describe the spectacle before my eyes. Her eyes were red with weeping, but the temporary disfigurement could not conceal her extraordinary beauty. She was about twenty-seven or eight, and very fair, with large blue eyes and a pretty pouting mouth. I blame Poirot's incessant tickling, or should I say, tugging of my sexual senses; all I wanted to do right then was to take those pretty rosebud lips of hers and position them firmly on the end of my
"Monsieur Poirot?" she faltered.
"Madame!" Poirot sprang to his feet and hastened towards his prey. "I cannot tell you how I regret to derange you in this way. But what will you? Les affaires - they know no mercy."
Tch, he would know. As time went on, my mind began to drift. I pretended to listen patiently as Poirot questioned the poor Mistress.
My mistress, I look at her solemn face that used to make laughter; her laugh would be like the tinker of morning bells in a field of summer grass, and autumn wind, like a cool breeze softly kissing the cheek... her lips, tiny and rosy like the first flowers of spring, blossoming up to a lone wanderer, so pure and innocent, how I used to be before I was entrusted to the dark maniac of the underworld, disguised as a seeker of truth, and was broken for eternity, and he laughed, like the sadist he is... but my mind has been depraved and what entropy has influenced seeks to play the role of entropy itself... how many, so very many ways I could think of corrupting her, and secretly in the dark depths of my heart I am laughing, and Poirot is laughing at what his slave has become...he is an evil man! I hate what he is, what he has done to me, I hate him and wish with all the world to have just one release for all time. But now, I'll put aside these dark thoughts and enjoy what life has given me- one hot mama straight on a dish! And she's heartbroken for her lost lover! It's like she's asking for me to fu-
Poirot had stood up from his chair and was staring intently at me. I quickly looked back at him obediently, but it was too late and he was shaking his head. "Hastings! You are supposed to be gathering the vital clues, not daydreaming!" He smirked, thinking of what an adorable pet he possessed.
"My apologies, sir... if it is alright with you madame, may I further question about the details of the tragedy?" I looked towards her with as much kindness as I could muster, and she seemed taken with me, before quickly averting her eyes to the floor once more. Poirot nodded in approval, then started upstairs with the housemaid as I assumed he wanted to take a look at the body, or fuck privately. The woman looked horny enough, after a long day's work for this withdrawn widow, I'd understand that she would want a little pleasure.
"May we commute to a more comfortable environment, perhaps, a small bedroom, if you don't protest..." I stuttered out, as I felt my cheeks burn. She puckered her lips and I felt myself harden to the point of painful yearning, pushing against my tight wool pants. She silently nodded and led me upstairs. Once inside of the room I could contain myself no longer; as I closed the door behind her I asked, "So madame, what can I do for you?" A purr escalated to my throat, not unlike old Poirot after watching his nightly porno.
"You can't bring my husband back," she uttered, obviously not taking the hint. I frowned; this woman was dumber than I thought. But my animal instincts called, and who was I to refuse... I slowly walked over to the bedside and sat down next to her, slowly and gently placing my arms around her petit shoulders.
"Madame, I know that the loss of your husband must have left a large gap in your heart, but if you would just open yourself to me, I could fill that gap, and many of your other gaps, for that matter," I purred.
She stared off into space for a minute before letting out a cruel laugh, that though varying greatly in pitch, sent the same chills down my spine as did every night, and to my dismay I was greatly reminded of Poirot. Such is the paranoia of a slave. "Stupid boy," she spat, laughing derisively, before quickly grabbing a handful of my hair and crudely pulling me forward into a rough kiss. Now I was really reminded of Poirot, and I realized yet again that I had been taken advantage of, silly silly me. No, I thought, this time would be different, this would be real pleasure... a beautiful woman... nothing could go wrong.
I was almost right. As I wrenched away from her tight grasp she plunged herself into my neck and after leaving deep marks sent a shimmering trail of saliva up to my mouth, where she thrust her tongue deep into its depths; the taste was entrancing and we held the embrace for what seemed like an eternity. I began to fumble at undoing her widow's dress, and she groaned loudly, urging me on.
"You have no need to be a widow anymore," I said huskily, voice hoarse from strangled moans, which I had to hold back as she quickly and nimbly unzipped my fly and fingered me lustrously. We were about to make love like never before when that pesky Poirot stepped in.
"Hastings, have you fou-" His eyes widened at the site of madame et moi, and his mouth dropped open, pipe falling and clinking to the floor.
End
We sort of got carried away with our storytelling, as you can see. And I'm even more sad for writing the damn thing out. Well, R&R people.