It was with this same knowing look that he approached her desk, one day in late February.
"I just want you to know, I've got it figured out, wonder woman," he sneered. "I've finally got your glorious technique figured out."
All of a sudden Melissa felt sorry for him. So what! What could he do? Tell Pallbrook? He knew. Start a scandal? Nope. No proof. She indeed pitied him as she watched him place the brief before her.
"New assignment," he said. "A millionaire recluse. Never sees anybody. Of course I know that doesn't matter; you'll find some flunky to get you in, but in you'll have to get. The closest secretary doesn't know shit. You're going to have to see the top banana personally. Open it up."
As she did, she quickly realized the direction his knowing would take her in, and every ounce of pity drained from her heart.
"That's right, Melissa my dear. Glenda Belson. She's blown into town to exhibit her precious art collection at the Institute, and I think it's only right to put our star reporter on the jab."
"Thanks, Murdock. I appreciate the compliment, left-handed or not."
"That's okay, kid, because this is a woman, the female of the species, and if you do as well on this job as I think you're going to, there'll be plenty more women to see from now on."
As she climbed the snow-covered steps of the Art Institute, Melissa was not really worried by the threat. She knew Pallbrook would never allow it. What consumed her was the challenge. She had to beat Murdock; she couldn't allow him to have even the slightest victory over her.
Once inside, she proceeded immediately to the Morton wing where the exhibit was being put up. She weaved her way through the carpenters and workers, looking for her flunky, someone to serve as the key to Glenda Belson's door.
She was about to give up when she heard a familiar voice.
"Melissa Dansin? Well, you can put these faggot bones to bed, I've seen it all!"
As she turned to see who it was, she was greeted by the sight of a slender figure in wide flare bell-bottoms, a bright floral print shirt covered by a velvet Edwardian coat, and topped by a long knit scarf that circled his throat once, leaving the ends to hang down to his knees. It was not until he started walking towards her in his long, over graceful strides, his arms outstretched flamboyantly, that she recognized him.
"My God! Duane St. James!" she cried, wrapping him in a big hug. "I don't believe it. You look great."
"God love you, I feel like the last chapter of what's the use."
"What're you doing here? You still painting?"
"No, thank God. Once I realized that I couldn't get hired to paint the primer coat on a picket fence, I quit. The whole great-painter routine was my mother's idea anyway."
"Is she here with you?"
"The witch of Endor?" he groaned in exaggerated display. "Noooo! She's still in Omaha devouring peasants. I finally found the courage, and minced my way to New York. You're looking at a respected gallery owner."
"Really?" she laughed. "Do you like it?"
"Oh, honey! I'm an international figure. I mean I can recognize great art, even if I can't produce it. I get invited to all the parties, and meet all the people that wouldn't touch me as an artist. I'm even personal director for the Belson collection."
"You know Belson?" she cried, her body jerking into alertness at the name.
"Know her! Sugar, I may have escaped Mummy's apron strings in Omaha, but I need that influence. So, I just jumped onto the Belson express. I'm her adopted son."
She clutched his arm. "Duane, I need to interview her. Can you get me in?"
"Consider it done, dumpling. You meet me out by the lobby, and I'll make the phone call."
As she walked to the lobby, she felt something gnawing at her, something Duane had said. Mother, something about his mother.
"Oh, my God… Bob!"
Suddenly it hit her. Bob lived with his mother. So, that was it. He was gay. That was why he would never discus his sex life.
She was relieved by the sudden insight. She had always felt slightly hurt that he did not trust her enough to tell her, but at least now she knew. Maybe she could relax him enough to drop the block between them.
Her relief was doubled when Duane returned to announce that Glenda would be to see her in her Palmer House suite to in two hours. To kill time they walked to one of the nearby bars and ordered cocktails.
"Here's to Melissa," he said. "My only experiment in heterosexuality."
Her memory of the incident quickly flowed up. They had met at an Omaha art show. They developed an instant friendship, and Melissa was treated to a whirlwind tour of the gay scene in town.
It was on one such bar-hopping evening that Duane came up to Melissa's apartment. Between her desire to change him and his curiosity, they finally found themselves rolling on the floor in naked embrace. Melissa did most of the work, but she never minded.
Things went slowly at first, his body unwilling to respond to her female approaches. It was not until she took on a sort of maternal attitude that his cock shot up in firm, erect passion.
She sucked hard at the swollen rod, shouting her matronly orders between large gulps of his throbbing shaft. Her fingers played lightly over his balls. She rubbed the swollen tastes, coaxing his prick to its full size before continuing down to enter the delightful channel of his asshole.
She worked hard to produce the sensations most familiar to him, and his body snaked in delight as her tongue rode up and down his firm cock, her fingers pounding their lust into his grinding asshole.
Once he was thoroughly primed, she climbed over his body and absorbed the full length of his prick-pole into her tightly gripping asshole. She pounded his body with her hips, cajoling him in her motherly fashion to suck her tits.
It all worked. The vision of his mother swam behind his closed eyes as he tore at her bobbing tits, his mouth sucking furiously at the firm standing nipples, his hands groping and clutching at the soft clitoral patch of her cunt.
They both came in one large, violent explosion. Her butt-muscle sucked at his bursting cock, milking the giant tool as its cum blew into her bowels in gallons. Her own juices flooded out to coat his trembling hand, and inundate his belly with its bursting release.
It was a fond memory for Melissa, one of many they discussed in their two hours at the bar. By the time they left to meet Glenda Belson, Melissa was sailing on a cloud of good feeling, and martinis.
The suite was big, rich and beautiful, but so was Glenda Belson. She was about forty, with large full tits that matched Melissa's in size and firmness. Her hair was red, and piled stylishly on her head. It all served to cap a proud, dignified face that was really quite sensual.
"So, you'd like an interview?" she said, drinking in Melissa's body with her eyes, appraising her in a manlike fashion.
"Yes, ma'am," she replied.
"Duane darling, why don't you go about your duties while Miss Dansin and I get better acquainted?"
"Yes, love," he said. As he turned to go, he gave Melissa's arm a tight squeeze and whispered, "My turn to teach you something. Just swing with it, darling. You'll love it." And he left.
Melissa was not exactly sure of his meaning, but the older woman's searching looks had given her some idea. She took up a position at one end of the sumptuous sofa, and Glenda seated herself at the other. Carefully, she drew her legs up under her body, the slit in her long robe parting to reveal the soft whiteness of her full, fleshy thighs.
The conversation began with small talk that yielded little information. It only served to generate strange quivers in Melissa's body as the older woman kept shifting her position, giving her more and more looks at the exposed flanks of her firm, womanly body.
"You're aware, of course, that I rarely interview?" she said, her body edging ever closer to Melissa.