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What A Charming Girl

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Lady Hargrove smiled holding out her hand towards Poirot, “Monsieur Poirot I can’t ever repay you.”

Poirot took her delicate doll-like hand within his and lowered his face towards it, “My pleasure Madame.”

She turned towards Hastings with a beatific smile, “and one could never forget your help, Captain Hastings.”

“Oh, it was nothing, happy to help.” Hastings smiled bashfully with a gentle blooming of his cheeks.

She moved closer to Hastings with her hand outstretched only to encounter Poirot’s shoulder as he too moved closer to Hastings creating a small barrier between them.

“Excusez-moi Madame, me and Hastings have the urgent train to catch, come Hastings.”

Hastings felt himself being tugged rather briskly on the arm away from Lady Hargrove’s astonished face and into the indomitable form of Poirot as he hurried towards the nearest taxi.



As Poirot sucks gently down he slides his strong hands over Hasting’s hips then pulls him to the end of the seat. No matter how many times they do this Hastings doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to the sensations cool, uncomfortable at first, unbearable fullness and then spine-tingling ecstasy. He secretly thrills at Poirot’s manhandling of him, how formidable he was in his mind and fingers.

It didn’t take much to stoke the flames of Poirot’s jealousy particularly in these past few months, many pretty young women came to him for help and it was all too easy for Hastings to admire them. With a jolt of pleasure, he remembers the first time, a rich old uncle murdered, several suspicious candidates named in a generous will and a beautiful damsel in distress. With his impenetrable mind and a wondrous flare for the dramatic Poirot had them all gathered in the drawing-room with one last smile at Hastings the murderer was named to the gasps of all involved.

Later the beautiful damsel thanked them over coffee at Poirot’s flat before she left to embark on a new carefree adventure and Hastings commented on what a charming girl she was then the next thing he knew was the slight tickling sensation of a well-waxed moustache, muttered angry French against his lips and the flex of strong fingers digging into his shoulders.

He was shocked to his very core, standing by the door to the flat with his face lax, eyes wide as Poirot pulled him down closer to his height and using his lips and tongue in a way Hastings could never have imagined in his wildest dreams.

“Mon Cher Hastings, what is the matter? Dog’s got your tongue?” Hastings mouth moved of its own accord forming the word on his tongue with no input from his brain, “cat.”

This allowed Poirot to slip his tongue into Hastings parted lips and meet his as it resumed its normal position, which sent his mind into free-fall. Darkness enveloped his mind, he had no experience of this kind, should he just follow his instinct or rebel against how this was making him feel?

Tentatively he started to kiss back, Poirot was always a force to be reckoned with and here he was no different. This small moment of reciprocation seemed to spur Poirot on further and using his considerable skill he managed to elicit a moan that seemed to be dragged from the very core of Hastings and shocked him all over again even in his exceedingly excitable state.

Suddenly Poirot pulled away from him, his eyes were shining bright, his lips swollen but stretched into his usual scrunched up little smile and a slight redness to his face.

“Viens avec moi mon chéri.”

He confidently slid his hand into Hastings, squeezing his fingers gently before leading him dazedly away from the door and toward his bedroom. Even now several months and incidents later the events of that afternoon make his breath quicken, his heart race, and his mind fuzzy with Poirot’s passion-filled voice.

Hastings musings were interrupted by Poirot’s soft breathy voice. “Mon beau Hastings… tout à moi” was murmured into his neck between biting kisses making his skin feel tingly and more sensitive to Poirot’s attention.

He’d learned from previous encounters that Poirot seemed compelled to produce marks on Hastings skin, in particular on his neck sometimes quite close to being inappropriately visible. He had tried on previous occasions to raise the subject of proprietary but that just seemed to push Poirot to make the marks bigger while muttering in French.

Hastings remembered with a mix of fondness and embarrassment the thrill that shot through him every time his collar pressed against a particularly large bruise. Miss Lemon thought he was looking off-colour due to his clammy, reddened appearance while Poirot had admonished him for being unkempt and fixed his tie with a sparkle in his eye.

Poirot’s dexterous fingers moved sinfully all over Hastings skin, igniting all his nerve endings and fuelling his anticipation for what was to come. Poirot leaned in to kiss Hastings lips, which he returned with vigour before he finally descended down his body peppering every inch of skin with a dainty kiss.

“Prêt mon chéri?”


Over time Hastings has grown somewhat used to this sensation and Poirot was always gentle even when he seemed overcome by passion, ‘order and method indeed’ Hastings thought with some amusement. He assumed it was because he’d never been touched there, never even imagined he’d want to be, the very idea. Until Poirot and his wonderful fingers, so agile, so thick and dare he thinks masculine. A tremor of arousal shoots through him as Poirot scissors the first two fingers and a moan comes unbidden to his lips.

As the sound left him he became aware of the tickly sensation of Poirot’s moustache on the sensitive skin of his inner thighs.


Poirot’s lips descended onto him with great enthusiasm causing Hastings hands to unclench from the sheets grasped within his fingers and find purchase on Poirot’s wonderfully egg-shaped head. Hastings bit down hard on his lip to the point of pain to try and contain the sounds of pleasure that Poirot was wrenching from him.

“Non, non mon Cher Hastings, let Poirot hear how he pleases you.”

“I can’t…”

“For me Hastings?”

“Poirot… Please”

Hastings' hand stroked the side of Poirot’s face with trembling fingers. Poirot placed his hand on top of his fingers and squeezed gently before letting go and lowering his head once more. He nibbled his way across Hastings' thighs, driving him to near distraction.

Then he started to push in a third finger while diverting Hastings attention with his lips and tongue. The unbearable fullness soon started to dissolve into spine meltingly magnificent pleasure as the moans fell unbidden from his lips.

Hastings still felt great embarrassment about the way he acted and the sounds he made when Poirot did these things to him but in a contradicting fashion, he couldn’t help thrilling at how Poirot made him feel. He had never acted this way with a woman, it just wouldn’t be proper and Poirot just seemed to be able to anticipate how much he needed and then finally too much so that he couldn’t resist.

The now all too familiar feelings started to rise up within him, his heart was racing, he couldn’t quite get a full breath and his mind felt fuzzy and was filling with a great white light. He tried to warn Poirot but before he could utter a sound all the muscles in his body started to undulate in an unmistakable sensual dance and the final evidence of his pleasure flowed from him into Poirot’s waiting mouth. Poirot didn’t falter and worked Hastings expertly through to his completion.

Hastings slowly came back to himself, he felt completely wrung out as though he’d been playing golf all day, every day for a month. He slowly raised his head to realize that he was enveloped within the strong, warm arms of Poirot who was gently nuzzling him and whispering softly against his skin.

Slowly it dawned on Hastings that he had reached his natural conclusion but his poor friend had been denied and he was eternally ashamed to remember that this wasn’t the first time this had occurred. He desperately wanted Poirot to feel as satisfied as he did but he was embarrassed to admit that he was unsure of how to make Poirot feel all the same things, as Poirot was the only man he had ever had touch him this way. He wasn’t sure but he didn’t think the same was true for Poirot, he was too worldly although it was hard to tell with him, he could have read a book about the subject while in Belgium.

Hastings cleared his throat, “Poirot… do you… erm…”

Poirot kissed him gently, “Je suis assez satisfait.”

Hastings wanted to broach the subject as he felt it was jolly unfair for Poirot to have to be the one who put in all the effort but seemed to get little in return.

“Hastings now is not the time to be overtaxing the little grey cells hein.”

“Poirot, this isn’t an easy thing for me to say but what exactly are you getting out of this arrangement?”


“I say are you going to make me lay all my cards on the table?”

With great difficulty Hastings forced himself to look Poirot in the eye and he could see his eyes change from soft contentment to calculation. A short uncomfortable silence followed as he tried to think how best to begin.

“I know I’m not particularly knowledgeable in these matters but I know enough to realize that you’re getting the short end of the stick as it were and I’d hate to think that…”

Poirot raised his hand, “non Hastings there is nothing for you to worry about, tu es parfait.”

“But… “

“Non, it is time for you to rest.”

Poirot pulled Hastings back down onto his chest enveloping him within the secure warmth of his arms once more. Hastings mind raced with all the unspoken things he didn’t get to discuss, why was Poirot content with what had to be a very unsatisfactory arrangement? Had he been intimate with many people before Hastings? He felt it had to be many or one who had taught him much due to Poirot’s considerable skill in this area but why settle for Hastings? If he were being honest with himself he didn’t even know why he caused so much ardour within Poirot.

“Hastings I hear your thoughts from here.”

“I’m sorry Poirot, I’m just so confused.”


“I don’t want to embarrass you, old boy but why me? And how can you be satisfied with this?”

“I will have to possibly offend your English sensibilities mon ami.”

Poirot started to gently stroke Hastings hair which despite himself calmed him immeasurably.

“ I am immensely happy with this arrangement mon cher because for a long time I saw a future where I would never get to experience this, I have wanted this for… well, it is gênant to say non but since Belgium when you were a suspect. Then to see you again and have this friendship magnifique it has meant everything to me. Then un moment de folie and I thought I’d ruined everything but I am pleased to say non. Anything I can have for me is parfait.”

Hastings slowly processed this information; he couldn’t quite believe everything he was hearing particularly the amount of time Poirot had felt this way. He still felt inadequate however and he wanted to tell Poirot he was sorry because even if Poirot had been feeling this way for so long the reality must have been pretty second-rate.

“I’m sorry…”

“Sacré you have nothing to be sorry for mon chéri, Je suis content. I have more than I ever felt possible.”

“I understand but you put in all the effort and well I am new to this whole man thing and…”

"J'aime ce fait, je veux être ton seul homme"

“Poirot please....”

“je suis désolé.”

“I just don’t want this to be one-sided that’s all, I want to know that you’re having as much enjoyment as I am.”

Hastings was starting to regret pushing this conversation it was becoming decidedly uncomfortable. He was beginning to feel too warm and constricted by Poirot’s presence instead of comforted by it.

“Would it embarrass you further mon ami if I told you that I receive great enjoyment from your enjoyment? I like to imagine that Poirot is the only one who can make you feel these things. Maybe that is wrong but as I have said many times I am never wrong.”


“Am I wrong?”

Hastings started to fidget much more noticeably now and Poirot gently turned him so that they faced each other. The light within the room was dim but Hastings knew that Poirot would be able to see him perfectly and he felt unease creep into his mind. Earlier on this exact afternoon, he knew he’d been admiring the fact that Poirot could make him do these things and feel these things but to say it out loud.


He looked up at Poirot, directly into his searching eyes and let his mind sort through all the thoughts he’d had earlier and let the images flow, Poirot touching him, kissing him, manoeuvring him the way he wanted and the magic of his fingers. He could feel his body breaking out into a sweat, his heart starting to beat a familiar tempo and his face was starting to feel too hot.

Slowly Poirot’s eyes softened and his face broke into a smile that scrunched up all his features. He then leaned forward and kissed Hastings with a renewed ardour and he kissed back trying to pour everything he couldn’t say into it.

Finally, Poirot pulled away from him again and resettled Hastings back into his previous position on his chest.

“Bonne Nuit mon chéri”

“Goodnight, Poirot.”



“A miss Churchill is here to see you, Mister Poirot.” Miss Lemon leaned on the door looking expectantly at Poirot who was seated at his desk.


From the behind his newspaper Hastings voice piped up, “oh you remember Poirot she was the absolutely charming young lady we met at Lady Holden’s dinner party last night.”

"Charming young lady?"

"Oh that's right she was seated beside me at dinner, she's Lady Holden's cousin, lives in Berkshire, and she was telling me..."


Poirot held eye contact with Hastings for a second longer than was comfortable.

“Miss Lemon, ask her to come in s'il vous plait.”

He rose from his seat to exchange his lounging jacket with his suit jacket. He walked briskly towards it to smooth it down before removing it from the hanger only to feel Hastings hands move over his and take it from him. He turned so that Hastings could help him with it, his hands smoothing it thoroughly over his shoulders, arms, and waist.


“My pleasure,” whispered softly against his ear.

Poirot turned towards Hastings bringing his hand up to his tie, pulling it carefully into a more symmetrical position while his ring finger gently caressed his collar.

“Monsieur Poirot?”

“Ah, Mademoiselle how can Poirot be of assistance?”