Doppelganger  by Reniago.                       Back.
The author has published more fiction at Woman Worship.

It was scary. I'd always lived a blameless life. I'm not saying I was perfect by any means, but I never went out of my way to anything wrong or illegal. In fact I often went to considerable lengths to avoid giving offence to anybody.

But there I was. In a police interview room. I'd been there for what seemed like hours. I'd been apprehended while I was in the gym.I'd just got out of the shower when that detective took me in. Wearing only a terry cloth robe I felt particularly vulnerable in the station.

I kept thinking about that detective.She had a smile like the brass plate on a barrister's door. It seemed to say "your in big trouble, and I'm delighted about it". There was a glint in those eyes. They were large and blue, like clear sky over a snow-capped mountain. She was not a tall woman, and seemed to have a curvaceous figure that was voluptuous rather than overweight.

I didn't know what it was I was supposed to have done, and it was horrible. Having been brought up as a law-abiding citizen, naively I had assumed I must have done something wrong, otherwise I would not have been arrested. I trawled my conscience for any crime that could have led me into that predicament. The millions of times I had exceeded the speed limit came back to haunt me, and convince me of my guilt.

Actually strictly speaking I had not been arrested. I was "helping the police with their enquiries", at least that is the phrase that is trotted out in these circumstances. From where I was sitting, in the spartan, grey interview room of the police station, I didn't really appreciate the difference.

The bricks of the room wore a thin covering of dour grey paint, allowing me to study the pattern of the bonding on the wall. There was little else to distract my attention. The room was tiny, a cube about the size of a spare bedroom. There were no windows, the only light being the yellow emmission from a bare bulb dangling off a wire on the ceiling. The only connection with the outside world being an imposing black metal door. It remained forbiddingly unmoving while I sat on a plastic chair in front of a small table, which supported the weight of an elaborate taperecorder. Over on the other side of the table stood another two empty chairs. The upholstery (if that is the right word) a rough grey plastic, supported by thin metal legs.

I don't know how long they kept me waiting there. Considerably more than enough time to count the bricks in the wall several times over. Occasionally I got up and walked about to relieve the monotony. I tried to ease my growing tension by availing myself of all of the limited opportunities for exercise the room offered. All the while I was becoming more nervous, and more conscious of the questionable legality of my driving, parking, and work expense claims.

The big black door eventually swung open. In walked the detective that arrested me. She slammed the door behind her. The metallic boom resonated in the small room for what seemed like hours. Accustomed to the silence, it hurt my ears. She was carrying a manila folder. I noticed it bore my name, and I noticed it was so thin it could only have contained a couple of sheets of paper. If it was my record I can't have been a major criminal. I took as much reassurance from this as I could.

"I'm DI Michelle Steele," she said, taking one of the empty chairs, and throwing the manila folder casually upon the table. I looked at her face trying to ascertain the depth of the trouble in which I found myself. All the while those blue eyes penetrated my being, and searched for something. The truth of my guilt or innocence, perhaps.

She made me even more nervous than I already was. The fact that I found her very attractive seemed to make the whole thing seem so much worse. She was in her late twenties, had a pretty face, and wore her thick blonde hair in a tight bun behind her head. She wore a white tailored blouse that seemed to struggle to contain her full breasts, and a plain black leather skirt that stopped just above her knee. In a different context I would have liked to get to know her better. In this context, I wanted to be as far away from her as possible.

"Right then Charles," she said, reading my name from the cover of the file. "Let's see if you're going to help me, or do I have to get rough."

I didn't like it when she threatened to get rough. Notwithstanding the politically correct age in which we live at the moment, I could never bring myself to hit a woman, not even in self-defence. Then of course there is the fact that this woman is a detective, and I respect the office if not the man (or woman). Furthermore I was in a police station. If I did defend myself, there would be dozens of individuals who would come to her aid. She could be as rough as she liked, and I would probably end up getting very hurt, without being able to do anything about it.

The fact that I was wearing only a terry cloth bathrobe added to my growing fear of what would happen. There was nothing to cushion any blows. My body would offer a blank canvas for her to emboss coloured designs of bruised skin. The only potential constraint to her violence was the tape recorder, but I had noticed with alarm that she had not turned it on. All I could do was wait for the questions, and hope to god I could answer them when they came.

"Ok. Let's not piss around." She was well spoken, but her voice had a hard edge to it. A suggestion of barely contained anger. She continued. "It's midnight. I have been on duty since 9:00AM this morning. I'm tired, I want to go home to shower and change. Tell me where the stuff is, and we can all leave."

"What stuff?" I asked. I could only guess what "Stuff" was. Was I supposed to have been involved in drugs? I've never touched them in my life. Looking at her cold blue eyes, I didn't think she'd believe me if I told her. It sounded too much like a cop show cliche.

While I was lost in thoughts about how to explain my innocence. I felt a sharp pain on my cheek. It hurt. I caressed the soreness with my fingertips. She had slapped me. She looked at me with a sneer that would have withered an angry bear.

Getting up out of the chair, she walked around to where I sat. Pulling the chair from under me, I fell backwards onto the floor, and banged my head on the hard linoleum. I felt momentarily stunned. I didn't see what happened then, but the next thing I knew was that the broad curves of her bottom were covering my face. She was wearing very thick tights, and the dense nylon weft cut into the skin on my nose, as she wiggled to make herself comfortable. Breathing became difficult through the taut weft of the fabric that covered my face, as I bore what seemed like her entire weight .

I was forced to take in deep breaths, and thus the air I inhaled was heavily scented with traces of her deodorant, her perfume, and the intense personal scent of a woman who had been wearing these clothes next to her most private parts for fifteen hours.

I cannot explain how I felt. At first I was panic stricken, and gasped for what air I could get. Yet there was something about the scent of her that actually excited me in a way I could not fathom. After several deep breaths it felt that I had achieved an intimacy with her that I would never have known otherwise. 

In my prone position, and with my sight and olfactory senses consumed by her bottom, I didn't feel her open my bathrobe, but her hands caressed my member, making it grow. In spite of all of the circumstances, I was aroused, and sought to express my arousal by the only means at my disposal. I reached out with my tongue and tried to caress her through the warm material of her tights. I sought out the taste of her intimacy, trying to lap up and savour her. I was becoming deeply aroused by caressing her in this way, much more than even by the delicate manipulations of my member with her skilled fingers. 

It was making love in a way I had not known how to make love before. My hands reached up, and I caressed the warm flesh of her thighs through the material of her tights. As my hands glided up and down, the friction with the dense fabric made high pitched whinings, like a frenzy of noisy fireworks being launched skywards.

Her flesh felt vibrant, and seem to tremble under my hands.Her tights seemed to absorb all of the moisture of my tongue and hands. I continued nevertheless, enjoying the friction of the material on my skin. I wondered what it felt like for her. I wanted it to be nice. I suddenly realised that I wanted this experience again. It seemed like it was what my life had been missing for so long.I had discovered, almost by accident, a route to sexual fulfillment.

I was so excited that I felt I was going to come at any second. I felt her hands caress my testicles. She squeezed tightly, and then stopped her activities all at once. There was a loud noise in the corridor. I think she might have thought somebody was coming into the room.

Dissappointed I watched her get to her feet. Light filtered in from all sides, as I watched her bottom rise like some distant sun. I felt cool, unscented air on my face. I felt lonely. I would have begged her to continue, but for the fact that I was stupefied by the whole experience. Nothing was as I expected it to be, and so I did not know how to react.

She stood up. The noises in the corridor continued. She took the leather skirt which lay in a discarded heap in a corner of the room, and put it on again. She made a few adjustements to her dress, before she returned to where I was lying.

She sat in a chair, and easing a foot out of her shoe rammed it in my mouth. I could taste the overwhelming fragrance of her feet. Inside my mouth she twisted her foot as if stubbing out a recalcitrant cigarette on my tongue. I felt the pressure of her toes, and gnawed hungrily, and adoringly at her feet with my lips.

I reached up and grasped the firm defined bone of her ankle, and caressed her shapely calves. It felt like I was being sexually penetrated by her, and my excitement grew tremendously, as I tongued her toes, as if trying to consume all of the fragrance they contained.

Her other foot gently kicked and played with my member. Teasing me. It kept me aroused, but promised no completion of my pleasure. I could have stayed like this for ever. I was grateful for even the slightest touch of her.

I wondered if this was part of the interrogation procedure. I felt I would tell her anything if she promised to continue. I would even admit to the murder of Kennedy. Then she did stop, and got to her feet again.

"You're not going to tell me anything are you?" She said contemptuously. She kicked me. The elegant court shoes she was wearing dulled the force of the impact on my side, but what hurt was the venom and anger of the gesture. Particularly as it dragged my soul back to that hellish interview room, from the momentary heaven I had been experiencing. 

"Get up." She ordered. I did so, retying my bathrobe, and trying to establish some semblance of composure, and tame my embarrassing erection.

She picked up my file off the desk. "Wait here," she said. Spitting out the words with a spite that was frightening. In spite of everything, I was still in trouble. Of course I wasn't going anywhere.

She left the room. I suspected she was going to get help. If it was drugs, there would probably be a dozen officers willing to beat up a dealer, in the hope of getting information about a whole ring of suppliers. I cursed myself for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I wondered how long it would take them to realise they had got the wrong man.

I waited again for what seemed like hours. I counted the bricks in the room again. There were definitely 744. I know I counted them several times.

At length the door opened, and a man entered the room. I gathered from the silver braid on his uniform he was quite senior.

"Charles Hindhaugh" he said. "I must apologise profusely for the error. You see you look uncannily like one of our suspects, and it seems DI Steele mistook you for him, quite innocently I assure you. It seems she's atoned for her mistake by apprehending your doppelganger shortly after you were brought in. That was why there was some delay in questioning you. I'm sorry we've kept you here for so long."

I was angry, upset, but still predominantly aroused. Michelle Steele had known I was innocent all along, but had used the interrogation for her own sexual thrills. In a way I was flattered, but at the same time disappointed. I doubted I'd ever see her again. The Chief Inspector instructed a more junior officer to drive me back to the gym where I could pick up my clothes, and my car so I could drive home.

It was about three AM when I got in. As I crossed the threshold of my house, I found a large brown envelope on the floor with my name on it.

I opened it up, and found it contained a pair of tights. They looked awful; the ragged pair of tights that a busy detective had been wearing all day long. But then I lifted them to my face, and inhaled her perfume again. The blood rushed to my penis. I fell to the floor and inhaled deeply through them. Reliving the moments of my interrogation.

It was later on when I found the card. "I may call on you to help with my enquiries again, M."

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