5 comments/ 30932 views/ 5 favorites Annette Goes Undercover By: shaunreagh He said we shouldn't work for the same company -- Graham, that's my husband -- to which he added, and this did NOT go down well with me, that I'd be rubbish as an undercover investigator in any case. Bloody cheek! But Mr Balfour, Graham's boss -- Balfour's Investigation Agency, 'Nothing too big for our close-knit team of highly trained professionals' -- said there was nothing to it. That I could learn all I needed to learn in an afternoon. It was only 'surveillance' after all. Whatever 'surveillance' was! He offered to give me a try. I was still smarting from Graham's crack that I would be crap at the job, so jumped at the chance. And now here I was, ten days later, on undercover 'surveillance', which I have since learned is just a fancy name for watching a bloke. Not just 'on surveillance' but doing so damn well that here and now, on my first assignment, I'd manage to talk myself into the target's hotel room! Fast learner, or what? "Get as close as you can to the target," Mr Balfour had briefed me, as Graham sat in the background and smirked, as if I didn't stand a chance. "Watch what he does, who he sees, any details you gather is a bonus. Give us a clue to who he's working with, and I'll give you a bonus." "How much?" Graham had snapped, quick as a flash. "Fifty quid," came the immediate response. Graham had smirked some more at that. "Fat chance," he sneered dismissively. But here I was, in the target's hotel room. Just about as close as I could get! The only drawback, the only 'fly in the ointment' as it were, was that while we were coming up in the elevator I had a sudden sense, as his eyes did a leisurely tour of my more feminine parts, that the reason he was inviting me up to his hotel bedroom was because he thought I was something I wasn't. I was beginning to think he might actually imagine I was 'on the game', as I think they put it, and this had me just a tad concerned, as you can imagine. What if he wanted ... you know. THAT? What would I tell him then? "Sorry, Mr Zitsky, I'm not really a hooker. I'm actually a 'surveillance operative' for Balfour's Investigation Agency. What I'm doing right now is working on assignment for Fillspool Mills, the local company you are trying to buy out, digging for dirt on you, and/or the company you head, so that the widely spread family shareholders of The Mills will reject your offer of a buy-out." I couldn't see such a response having a very good outcome! "So what'll it be," said Zitsky, the target, late thirties, big, impressive looking guy over by the minibar. "Gin, Whisky, Vodka?" "Aaah ..." What was the right thing to do here? "Vodka would be nice," I found myself saying, before I had worked out the right thing to do. "With tonic, okay?" he asked. He was very polite. Perhaps I was wrong about the guy. Perhaps he didn't think I was a hooker at all. Just a pleasant person he had met in the lobby. "That would be lovely," I replied, referring I think to the tonic idea. I had been sitting in the lobby lounge for the simple reason that HE was sitting in the lobby lounge. I was to watch him, Mr Balfour had explained, in order to see whom he might meet. But then he caught me -- Zitsky did -- watching him. At least I suppose he had. Why else would he have smiled? When I smiled back -- what else could I do, after all -- he picked up his coffee and came over to join me at my table. I could hardly tell him to go away. I was meant to watch him, after all. Surely, I reasoned to myself, thinking quickly, it would be easier for me to watch him with him sitting here, with me, at my table, than with him sitting half way across the lobby? That's how I figured it, at any rate. After some verbal to-ing and fro-ing -- me trying unsuccessfully to think up clever things to ask that would let me know what he was doing, and who he was planning to meet, while he gave my legs a thorough going over with his eyes, (my skirt was very short, another of Balfour's ideas: 'Look sexy, and no-one will think you're undercover,' he'd assured me). After a bit more idle chat Zitsky asked me if I would like to join him in his room. He said it would be quieter than the lobby. And in fairness to him, there was a lot of noise in the lobby. From road works just outside. So -- and as I say, this was surveillance and he was the target -- I had responded, "Fine, why not!" So here we were. Up in his room. I was dressed in a pale lemon suit. Chosen because the skirt was short and made me look sexy, because my legs are long and agreeably shaped -- or so men tend to tell me. The jacket is a short box jacket with a neckline that plunges, just a tad. I was wearing heels, three inch, silver, with ankle straps. And charcoal self-supporting stockings. My hair was up. My earrings were dangly silver things that Graham had bought me in Faro, in Portugal, last year. He presented them to me for my twenty-first birthday, at a place called Chicken Louie's, out of town. When I turned up for duty earlier today, at Balfour's Investigation Agency just after lunch, dressed as I've described -- it was my first assignment and I was nervous -- Mr Balfour said I looked, 'Mouth-wateringly gorgeous. Chic as all heck!' Whatever that meant. Mr Balfour is apt to exaggerate. Then he added that I was, 'Absolutely ideal for the part,' which did my shaky self-confidence no end of good. Then he went on to brief me on Zitsky, the target, and what I had to do. So here I was now, doing it. "Thank you," I took the drink from Zitsky. Zitski was broad and big but his face was round and boyish. Except for his eyes, that is. His eyes were a little bit disconcerting. The sort of eyes you felt missed very little. The sort of eyes you perhaps didn't want wandering your legs and revealing neckline as his had started to do, as soon as he sat me on the sofa, by the window, facing the bed. "So," he said, sitting down next to me, eyes still at work on the bits of me that showed. "Tell me about Felsham." That's where we were. Felsham. The Felsham Arms hotel, Room 507, to be precise. It was one of their better rooms, top floor. It is not a huge hotel. Felsham is not a huge town. "Well ..." I started, not sure where to start. Then, finding my tongue and a kernel of inventiveness, I launched into a rather nervous spiel, about Felsham, the town. The town in which Fillspool Mills was based. It's history, the sights, what it was known for, and, of course, 'The Mills' themselves -- as they are known locally. (Fillspool Mills are the biggest employer for miles around.) As I was telling him this his eyes continued to roam up and down my legs as if he found them more interesting that what I was saying. My skirt was ludicrously short, as I've said, and the sofa was one of these low ones, so a lot of my legs was showing. I tried crossing them, one over the other, thinking perhaps that might help, though how I thought it would I've no idea. In fact it made it worse. Of the leg I'd crossed I was now flaunting even more by having crossed it. Exposing the band of flowers around the top of my stocking. But having crossed it, I could hardly immediately uncross it. Could I? It might make him suspicious. Or worse. And I didn't want that. Not on surveillance. It would sort of defeat the object of the exercise. "So you work in the hotel?" he said, cutting across my mounting embarrassment, regarding legs, and apparently boring travelogue, regarding Felsham. "Not ..." how could I put this, "... actually ... IN ... the hotel," I explained/stammered. "I meant, you use the hotel as a base?" he said, eyes on the plunge of my neckline and the bulge of my breasts that I knew were within. I am pretty well 'stacked', I am told, as I think the expression goes, but being relatively inexperienced in such matters -- other than with Graham, and even that, not hugely, (we went to the local school together, kind of taught each other, so to speak,) I have not had a lot to compare with. "The lobby, I meant," he amended, perhaps because I hadn't gone on to explain what I meant, whatever that was. "Where you work from, is it?" he pressed. How could I put this? I could see what he was starting to think. I could also see he was starting to become just a tad impatient with me. Either that or he was starting to think I was dense. So I said, "You could say that, yes." Graham says I tend to think too much before I speak. It makes people impatient, he says. I made a mental note to try to avoid making my target 'impatient'. "I haven't seen you there before," he said, looking at me, , in a manner that I was starting to suspect, was just a little ... suspect. "I've been away," I said quickly, the cold snout of panic probing icily into my chest. I didn't want to blow my first assignment but nor did I want to be thought of as something I was not. Not that I really knew what a hooker was. Well, of course I knew what a hooker WAS ... but not what it was 'like', if you see what I mean. In terms of how a hooker might behave, I mean. Like in a situation such as this. What did they do? Say? Demand? Expect? I really had no idea. I doubt if I had ever knowingly seen a hooker in the flesh. Ever! Which gives you some idea of what Felsham is like. We're a very provincial town. I don't think the church choir, with whom I spend a lot of time -- especially with Christmas on the way -- has many hookers actively as members. The hours would clash, I think. Rehearsals being in the evenings. "Where have you been?" he asked, putting his hand on my knee. "On ... holiday," I said. Both of us watching his hand. "Really?" he said, starting to stroke me. "Yes." I was starting to sound as I was starting to feel. Concerned, and a little embarrassed. "Where did you go," he asked, trailing his fingertips up my leg in the direction of my lemon yellow skirt. "Blackpool," I said, not thinking, keeping my hands out the way, keeping my eyes on his hand, on my leg, wondering if I should be uncrossing them, or something. What was the form? What would a hooker do? "Did you have a good time in Blackpool," he asked. His fingertips had reached the hem of my skirt, moved leisurely in towards the middle where my legs met, and were now toying casually with the line of contact. "Did I ..." (What?) I had forgotten the question. "Enjoy Blackpool," he provided, as if sensing I had. (Forgotten the question.) Our eyes were fixed on his fingertips. They were trailing up and down the line of contact of two charcoal stockinged legs. Down towards the knee, still neatly crossed. Back up towards the high lemon hem of my short yellow skirt. "Ah ... Um .... Yes," I said, mesmerised by his hand as it came against the hem of my skirt, and kept on going. "Never visited Blackpool myself," he said absently, clearly more interested in my legs and the stocking's bands of flowers that were coming into view than my mythical visit to Blackpool. "It's ... um," I said vaguely, "... nice," I finished, aimlessly, trying not to clench my fists, (held well out the way,) as I watched the slowly rising hem of yellow skirt bare more of the flowers round the top of my stockings, then a band of creamy skin. "How much do you charge?" came next, as his fingers ran over the skin at the top of my stockings. "Five hundred," I said, for some obscure reason uncrossing my legs, plucking the figure from somewhere. I had no idea what the going rate was. I was not even sure what rate we were talking about! But I had, by now, pretty much accepted that the reason I was in his room was not because I was a hot-shot surveillance genius. It was because he wanted into my pants. Five hundred, (of course,) would scare him off! "Dollars, or Pounds?" he asked calmly, knocking my theory for six, cupping my pudenda and giving it a squeeze. "Pounds," I stammered nervously as my pelvis kicked back from his touch and my hands almost grabbed his wrist. I was flabbergasted that so much money could possibly be considered appropriate for ... for what? ... for something as routine as sex? Graham and I have been married nine months. We still do it four times a week. Sometimes five, if the Rovers are playing away. Graham is gate-keeper for Felsham Rovers football team. Beer after the match doesn't help his performance in bed, so we don't even try if the Rovers are playing at home that week-end. Zitsky leaned back and whistled through his teeth. "Wow!" he said, continuing to feel what I had within the crotch of my flimsy red thong -- pillar box red, like the equally flimsy bra I wore -- yet more of my 'sexy' attire. All that I haven't described to you is the hair-fine chain around my waist ... there! now you know what I wore as intimately as Zitsky was trying to find out. "Pretty high class prices!" Zitsky remarked. "Pretty high class merchandise," I shot back at him, nervous as hell but hiding it well behind this show of high bravado. He shrugged, then smiled. And then, to my well-concealed relief, removed his hand from between my legs and leaned away from me. "Okay, let's have a look at the merchandise," he said, easing himself into the corner of the sofa. "If it's that high class it must be worth it. Up you get." What did he mean, 'Up I get?' Then it clicked. He figured I was a hooker, and was actually willing to pay my absurd price, if I looked okay. He wanted to see if I did. View the merchandise prior to sale, sort of thing. But was it as simple as that? And what if he thought I WAS worth it! Before I had figured out where this was going, or even what I was doing, I found a look of casual confidence, (or something,) from somewhere, pasted it onto my face, and was rising from the sofa in a manner I felt a fine courtesan might -- if a fine courtesan ever found herself in this particular room, of this particular hotel, in like circumstances. But once I was up on my three inch heels, with their neat ankle straps, and the high cut back, legs nicely sculpted by the effort, hem prettily high on legs I knew were good to look at, I started to question what might come next. My problem was this, I thought to myself as my hands went to the buttons of my jacket and started to undo them from the top: I had actually never removed my clothes in front of a man before, desiring that he'll dislike what he sees when he sees it. It is usually the other way around. But in this case, that's what I was doing. For if he liked what he saw ... what came next? What do you think? Exactly! See the problem? I should add, of course, lest you get the wrong idea about me -- having loosed one button and now moving on to the second -- I have rarely removed my clothes in front of men, period. Let's say three times in my life. Maybe four. Three different men, I mean. Or maybe four. (One I am not sure I should include.) Yet here I was -- three buttons open, a fourth large lemon-coloured disk disappearing into it's button hole and out the other side, I was part way towards taking my clothes off in front of a person whom, until this afternoon, I had never set eyes on before. My fingers were around the penultimate button of my jacket. His eyes were on my fingers and what they were doing. As I watched, they flickered lower, to my legs, then quickly higher, to the gap that was appearing at my chest, then back to the fingers themselves. The tip of his tongue came out and moistened his lips. His eyes were so focussed on me, it was almost weird. His shoulders were broad. He was bigger than Graham. Quite a bit bigger. And stronger too you had to think, the way he filled his shirt. I opened the last button of my jacket. His eyes lifted up and met mine. The disconcerting acuity within their depth had gone. But something else ... a hunger of a sort ... A want? A need? ... (was I staring at lust?) ... was there instead. Did I do that? Compelled, against my better judgement, by the change that the simple act of opening the buttons of my jacket had wrought in this man -- quite an important man, you had to think, otherwise I wouldn't be watching him like this, (or rather, he wouldn't be watching me like this!) -- I started to draw the jacket open. I wanted to see what it would do to these changeable eyes of his ... this older, bigger man than Graham. What would the sight of more of me do? To him. An important out-of-towner like this. He was different from people in town, you see, a big city businessman like this. Quite a rich one too, obviously. Obviously, from the fact that he could afford this, one of the better rooms, in this, the best hotel in town. Obviously too, from the fact that he, or his company -- and I understood from Mr Balfour that it WAS his company -- could afford to buy 'The Mills'. This wasn't the sort of man we were used to in Felsham. So how might my showing him my bra, affect him? Well I'll be blowed! His jaw dropped an inch and his mouth fell open! I couldn't resist the smile. Perhaps he was teasing me? But then ... he didn't seem to be teasing. And no matter what I did with my eyes to encourage his back to my face, they stayed where they were. Locked on my flimsy red bra -- low cut -- and the parts of me they strove to contain. The smile drifted slowly from my face. My face had lost its allure, it seemed. Swamped perhaps by the attraction of breasts -- my breasts. Even partially covered, my breast appeared to have more attraction than a face most in town regarded as pretty okay. Breasts were more private, I supposed ... wondering what came next. "You are fucking gorgeous," he whispered, almost to himself, eyes glued to my breasts and the pillar box red of my bra. Did they exaggerate in the city, I wondered, watching him. The way he sat forward in his seat. The rapt concentration on his face. The licking of lips. The size that his eyes had become. And to think I had thought they were a little bit scary! They were more like the eyes of a puppy, being offered a bone. A juicy one. To a starving dog. If I am being honest with myself I am not that unusual. My curves, I concede, are sometimes remarked on -- 'mouth-watering' in the words of an old boyfriend; number two of the three I mentioned, but when HE said it, he had thought he was in love with me so his judgement hardly counts. And yes, I will also concede I have well-shaped boobs -- 'luscious' was my first boyfriend's adjective; but he too was biased, besotted as he was with me then. There are lots of girls out there who look as good as I do. Many much better. In the city there must be hundreds. Look at the magazines, they're all in there! With his eyes still locked on my boobs, and bra, Zitsky's right hand rose in the air and his fingers circled, urgently. 'Get on with it,' they said. 'Get it off,' they implied. It was like performing to an audience. Of one. Do well and they applaud. Do badly and they'll Boo. I shrugged the jacket off my shoulders, let it slide down my arms, caught it in my right hand, tossed it on the bed that was behind me, next to his. My hands went to the back of my skirt seeking the catch and zip, finding both, opening the first, running down the second. Perhaps there is an entertainer in all of us, deep down. A part of us seeking approval. For when my skirt was open and ready to drop -- well, almost ready: it was firmly round my hips but my waist is small so the waistband is too, even opened, it needed a push to start it off -- I found myself posing, almost, bringing my knees together, easing the skirt off my hips with the flat of my hands, fingers aimed down at the floor. I felt it fall, caught it with an ankle, stepped out with the other, lifted the foot with it's lemon yellow prey to my hand, lifted it off, folded it once, dropped it behind me with the jacket on the bed. My eyes never left him as I did this. His applause was the expression of wonder-stuck awe on his face, or so it appeared at the time -- a mild form of stage-fright of my own, I have no doubt, turning his look into awe in my mind. But regardless of what I imagined, and what I did not, I had certainly got his attention! Annette Goes Undercover I stood there, hips angled, one leg straight the other slightly bent, one shoulder higher than the other, one hand on the hip as the other hung loose at my side. I let him drink me in. It's what he seemed to want to do. It felt quite funny, standing there like that, being admired so aggressively by this big important man from out of town. "Is this why you came to Felsham?" I asked, though cannot think why. "Sorry," he mumbled, not letting my words distract his eyes. I could almost feel them as they wandered me. So much raw desire. So much need. Damn it all, so much lust! Had I done that? "To look at me," I ad-libbed, feeling a surge of what I can only describe as strangely sexual power. "Is that why you came?" Do we like big men to lust after us? He shook his head, eyes glissading down my stomach to my pubis, the flare of thigh, the miniscule slip of bright red thong. "Buy a Mill," he said, his mind not engaged to his mouth, though clearly it was to his eyes. I could feel them as they slithered round my pubis. "A mill?" I repeated then continued in a throaty come-hitherness I hadn't been aware was part of my repertoire. "Why buy a mill when you can buy me!" I said, surprising myself, becoming a bit of a vamp. But it was no sooner out than I wished I hadn't said it. What would he think. That I was for sale? Like a mill? "If I'd known you were here I wouldn't have bothered about the mill," he said, almost starting to drool over me. I couldn't believe how his eyes didn't seem to tire of me. As if he couldn't get enough of my shape, my looks, the skin, his thoughts of feeling me. "Now that you know I am here, will you forget about the mill?" WHAT WAS I SAYING? Did being so blatantly admired, dressed in less than I should be, in a strange man's bedroom, unbeknownst to all those who love me, (and know me to be a good girl,) cause the mind to detach itself from reality and cause words to form in parts of the brain that clearly had no business forming words? Or was it the feeling of the power I seemed to have over this, until recently, frighteningly important man in my life. (That's what Mr Balfour called him. 'For the duration of the time you are watching him, the target is the most important person in your life.') So here I was, him watching me rather than me watching him. But I seemed to have him on a string. "Turn around," he croaked, hoarsely. I did as he asked, as is it were by right: his right to be as smitten as he was by what he saw, my right to let him look and drink his fill. I heard him gasp. I held myself still. To be found so devastating attractive by someone who had no need to find me so, was, I was discovering, a surprisingly intoxicating sensation. But ... I cautioning myself, this was not a game. This was not the opening throws of Monopoly, for example. Where you gain quick advantage and are thereby pleased. When you pass Go at this game it was not about exchanging paper money. Much more was involved. Bodily fluids, for example, were likely to need to be exchanged -- with all the collateral activity that particular process involved. I couldn't see Graham approving of that. It brought me back to earth. I was facing the bed, having turned as he required. My suit was placed over one end, I noted, his jacket next to that. His hands reached out and touched me. I reigned in the instinctive response to reach for his hands and remove them. I let them be. I held my own loose on either side. His fingertips started to stroke my backside. One hand to each buttock. The lace of the thong around my waist was higher up. The single down-lace snugly held in the cleft of my buttocks. I could feel the respect in his touch. My buttocks were tensed, clutched tight and firm, and deep down inside me I knew that would make them look well. Controlling myself not to move, his fingertips traced the curve of each taught mound ... out to the side then back ... very slowly into the middle. To the cleft. To the slender scarlet ribbon of my thong. "Jesus," he whispered, reverently spreading a hand over each bulge, gripping as much as he could and giving a squeeze. I relaxed, making the buttocks more malleable; giving him a better sense of grip. A second squeeze followed. Then a harder third. He eased me backwards into him. I felt his face at my backside. The stubble of a man who needs to shave twice a day. (Graham need only to do it once.) He started to grind his nose and mouth into the cleft as he gave off little mewing cries. His tongue came out and he started to slather and slaver in the cleft. I clenched my buttocks again -- partly reaction, partly response. I felt the grip on his nose in the cleft. The roughness of chin lower down. His hands snaked round the front of me. "Is this how you buy a mill?" I gasped, arching my back, my lower regions surrendered to his control. His right hand had snaked between my legs and the heal of his hand was over my pubis. The pressure clever. His fingers softly stroking my labia lips. He did it well. Almost as if I was doing it myself. He was much more practiced than I was used to. "Doesn't feel like buying a mill," I said, as my mind wrestled with the sensations of a stranger doing these things to me. Trying to untangle my thoughts and devise some sort of plan. "If I'd known you were in this god forsaken town I would have bought you, bugger the mill." "I'm not sure I'm for sale," I found myself saying, head angled towards the ceiling, eyes half closed with the effort of controlling myself, stopping my hands grasping tightly round his and dragging them off me. There was a sprinkler head above the bed and I found myself wondering, if things got too heated would the sprinkler go off? My right hand had snaked towards the front to grip his wrist and pull his fingers out from under my thong, but when they got close they thought better of it. Now they were lightly over the undulating bulge of fingers inside my thong. Sort of on 'Stand-by' I suppose. My pelvis pulsed to the fingers manipulations. Then my eyes closed and I pulsed again. "It's a deal," he mumbled, the words submerged in the cleft at my rear. Which is when my excuse for a brain switched itself back on. I eased away from the man. I was red in the face, I knew -- I always go red when aroused -- and my breathing was ragged and heavy -- that usually happens too. I gave him a straight-armed push with both arms on his hands -- held together -- as my middle and rear swung inoffensively round and away from his attentions. He looked like a puppy whose bone had been removed. "You are getting too excited." I whispered, just as I might to a pet. "Of course I am. What the hell do you expect," he boomed, sinking back into the sofa, the expression on his face one of frustration and the peripheral flickerings of annoyance. But I felt I had control of this situation now. My looks, or rather the effect of my looks on him, had given me the upper hand. "What do you mean?" he snapped, tugging off his tie and opening the collar of his shirt. "What do you mean, what do I mean?" I retorted, off balance, less smartly than I might. "Not being for sale. What is that supposed to mean?" Did I say that? "Nothing," I said, but felt as I said it that my lower lip might start to tremble. Since I was a child it has been my give-away. If ever I'm caught in a lie, or discovered doing something I shouldn't be doing, my lower lip starts to tremble. I turned away from him, stepped toward the dresser and the door to the bathroom, tried to get my thoughts in some semblance of order as behind me I detected the ring of accusation in what he said next, "You're not a hooker, are you?" I turned, determined to ride this thing out. I'd seen my reflection in the mirror. The long legs in stockings. The miniscule crimson thong. The fine silver chain around the sleekness of a waist I pay a lot of money to a gym to help me keep. The absurd way my breasts try to burst out my bra, also red, also bright, also flimsy. "What on earth are you talking about," I said, with what I hope was an amused little laugh. "No way you're a hooker," he said, looking glum and depressed, shoulders drooped, head down, broad hands worrying each other between strong looking thighs in the pinstripe trousers of an expensive looking suit. His jacket was on the bed with mine, taken off as he entered the room. "I don't know what you mean," I said, not knowing what he meant. The line of the dressing table cut across what was, until moments ago, the centre of attraction -- my naked butt -- as I relaxed into what I was contriving to make a seductive pose. Dressed in what I was, it shouldn't have been difficult, but somehow it was having no effect. "I've been around," he said. His eyes, more heavily lidded than I'd seen them til now slowly lifted to me standing at the dresser, mostly naked skin and female curves (and youthful charm?) "And hookers just don't look that good." "This good?" I parroted, stupidly. "Tell me the truth," he was shaking his head, his eyes having given my body a quick once over they dived for his shoes (expensive, black, with tassels,) and now they were searching the carpet. For what, the meaning of life? "What are you?" he asked, rubbing his broad hands over his face. His features ruddy and rough, but hard, you felt. Not a man to be thwarted. "You think I look good, you should see Sarah," I said, trying to thwart him, beginning to see the glimmer of a plan. Get him hooked on 'Sarah' and we can do a swap! Promises, promises. Anything to get me out of here without being rumbled as a 'surveillance operative'. His eyes were examining me questioningly -- and this time I mean my face, my eyes, rather than the other bits he liked. "You mean, you really are?" "Of course I am," I tried to sound reassuring. "But you ..." he shook his head, some light leaking back into these eyes of his. "You look ..." he raised his eyebrows as if that said it all, (whatever it was he wanted to say). "And you ..." he started to heave himself out of the sofa, "you actually RESPOND ... know what I mean?" And then he stopped. A look came over his face, as if understanding had suddenly hit. "How long have you been doing this?" he asked. "Not long," I said, feeling it was best. I was keen to bring 'Sarah' back into the conversation, but was not sure how. "How many have you ... worked with?" he asked, suddenly sounding like a little boy again. Eyes suddenly bright. Burning their way down my body. As if it was back on the menu. As if I was back on the menu! "Not many," I said, wondering if there was a hooker called 'Sarah' in town that I could call, to take over my role. "One, two ... five?" he bubbled earnestly, eyes and a hand back on my thong. At the front. Where it bulges. Just above the ... "Ngaaar!" I gasped and my eyes snapped shut ... he had found what the bulge was above. "So ..." I wrenched my eyes open and found they were focussed on the ceiling again, " ... you've just started. That explains it." "Why a mill?" I asked, then cleared my throat and asked it again. I needed to talk, to stop my mind giving up on me, and my body getting on with the buzz bit of life. "A partner's idea," he said vaguely, taking my right buttock in his unoccupied hand, reverently cupping it, then squeezing it with about as much longing as a man can have. Even one as big as he. "Ricky wants the land for a car park," he said next, just before his lips came so close to my mouth, and his eyes grew so soft on my own -- now lowered from the second of the sprinklers in the room -- that a child of five would have known what came next. He wanted to kiss me, was what came next. And he did. And I kissed him back. And then I remembered where the bit about the car park came into it all. "Are you always this nice to your partners," I said, breaking the kiss, focussing hard on the bit in my head that was dealing with car parks. That was our client's suspicion! A suspicion that my target -- although right now I seemed to be the target, rather than he -- intended to buy the mills, close them down, and open up car parks instead. Turn our little town into a shopping and entertainment hub for the city nearby. All that stopped it happening was the mills. The mills gave employment for all. Allowed us to keep to ourselves. But if the mills were closed, that workforce out of work, suddenly turning ourselves into an escape for the city wouldn't seem that bad an idea. Then they would really need car parks! "If it makes sense," he said. I gasped. His fingers were into the lips of a labia that seemed to have a honey farm on tap, and someone inside was cooking it, making it hot and slurpy and ... This was becoming indecent. I opened my eyes and looked him in the eye. Well, the face, at least, his eyes were working hard. On me. Lower. Down. "You are so fucking gorgeous!" he growled, just before sinking his mouth on the side of my neck. Now I know that it probably shouldn't, but for some absurd reason, this made me feel good. "Do you like girls?" I found myself asking, not at all sure how this helped. Him or me. "Very much," he mouthed wetly into my neck as his fingers continued to work on the bits of me he seemed to like to play with. Then his hands came away and he hooked his thumbs in the waistband of my thong, and started to pull it down. I reached to stop him. "Um ..." I started, stopping him. "You can't ..." I went on. "It's just ..." I started to explain, then ran out of words. What was I going to say? I knew telling him I was a private investigator was not be the best way to go. But what was? "Oh. I'm sorry. How remiss of me," he suddenly said, a look of understanding coming over his round cherubic face as he pushed me away. He stepped to the bed and reached for his jacket, next to my neat yellow suit. Relief surged through me like a wave of cool sea. How I'd done it I didn't know, but it seemed that I had. And not only that ... "I think I know Rick," I said, for I did, I'd seen the photograph of the guy. Balfour had shown me. Handforth Parking was the name of the firm we were trying to link to Zitsky. To show he was up to no good. To persuade the shareholders of the Mills not to sell. "Rick Handforth, isn't it," I said. And boy, did I have his attention now. "You know Rick Handforth?" he said, eyes narrowing, growing hard, hands in the jacket freezing. I swallowed. What was he reaching for? A gun? Did he have a gun? Was he going to kill me? "Baby faced guy. Long blond hair," I stammered, remembering the photo I'd been shown. I could see him relax, though wasn't sure why what I was saying should make him relax. "Kinda cute looking," I went on, because in the photograph he had been kinda cute looking. Zitsky was smiling now. Any trace of suspicion long gone. Long gone because I thought this Handforth guy looked cute? Yea -- go figure! "You fucked him, right," he said as his hand came out of his jacket with a wallet clutched in fingers that had to be sticky from the sexual discharge that coated my labia where the very same fingers had so recently played. (I tend to grow very moist when played with down there, and when subjected to the uncertain nervous fear, mixed with the unconscious arousal that he'd seemed to be able to generate, I had grown very moist indeed.) Sticky fingers pulled some money from his wallet. "You fucked him, am I right?" he guessed, not even looking at the money that was coming from his wallet. I never knew hundred pound notes were that colour. He counted out five and held them up for me to see. "I wanna know!" But he said it like a jest. Me the bit of toosh among buddies, or something. "What do you think?" I said coyly, not sure if there was an alternative strategy available right at this point in my life. After all, if I claim I never fucked him then how do I know him? And more importantly, how do I know he looks cute. (Tell him about Balfour? Tell him what I was sent here to do? And what I had just done ... which was, I reminded myself with an involuntary shudder of realisation, to establish whether or not there was a link between Zitsky and Handforth -- which there was! And which I had just found out. "This is the bastard, isn't it," Zitsky said with a growing grin, extracting a photo of the two of them, standing on top of some mountain, dressed in ski gear. "Yes!" I said, for it was. Suddenly hitting a strong vein of form, I went on, mimicking his bantering manner, "Can I keep this?" I asked. "Why?" but his smile was still there. "So I can remember you both," I said with a glint in my eye for a change. "Sure ... er ... why not." He shrugged. Glanced at the notes in his hand. "Where should I put this?" I saw his point. My thong had no pockets. "I'll put them in here," he said, reaching for my clutch bag sitting on the sofa. My clutch bag contained a small box with a number of hastily printed business cards that said who I was, and that I worked for an investigation firm! I dived at the bag. "I'll, ah ..." I said, reaching with one hand for the bag and the other for the money and then, smiling sweetly, deposited the second in the first, dropped in the photograph, snapped the bag closed. "Okay, fine," he stepped back, hands in the air, happy to let me do it myself. "So ... What does my five big ones entitle me to?" he asked next, beaming broadly, lowering himself onto the large double bed and starting to take off his shoes. I said nothing. On he went, "More than that bastard Handforth or I'll demand my money back!" He was chuckling now, no doubt thinking of what he would say to Handforth when the two next met -- on top of some other high Alp! As his shirt came off I saw the size of his chest. Spread across it was an impressive thatch of wiry hair. My right hand went to my breasts. One of my turn-ons is rough hair against them. Only happened once. "Well?" he pressed. My mind was on rough hair against my breasts ... but here was the way I was thinking right now: I had succeeded in what I had been sent to do, the clinching photograph safe in my bag, so would get a fifty quid bonus from Balfour. I would be due an apology from Graham, who said I'd fall flat on my face. I had five hundred quid, tax free, also in my bag. I had a not unimpressive guy, from the city, so damn keen to get into my pants that he was making me feel not merely like the most desirable girl in the room, but the most desirable girl on the planet! You ever had that happen to you? I sure as heck hadn't. So what was he entitled to? Who would ever know? My mind kinda made up itself ... "Anything you want," I said, slipping my thumbs into my thong and easing it over my hips. How was I going to feel about this afterwards, I wondered, as he held out his hands and I took them, and he drew me on top of him onto the bed. As he stretched out on his back and I draped myself rather naturally on top of him, I felt the rough hair on his chest hair against my breasts as they flattened into it and found the sensation as excitingly foreign and arousing as I thought I might. The look on his face said clear as day, 'I want you, girl.' Which meant, of course, enjoy me. ME. When someone as big and important as this -- a city man from out of town about whom people worried, like a gunman; with a broad chest and lots of hair spread across it like a forest over a range of mountains -- shows an interest as intense and as focussed as this, on me, well ... you sort of feel good about yourself. Very good about yourself. But it wasn't just his interest, consideration also played a part. When he noticed my part-nervous, part-apprehensive glance at his already rampant glistening-tipped prick as I lowered myself over him, his hand reached out to the side, grabbed his abandoned jacket, and motioned my attention to a pocket. I delved my hand into the pocket indicated and drew out three foil-wrapped prophylactics. He put two of them on the side table as I opened the third and pealed it over that part of him I was beginning to feel had seen considerable service in the field. But I was okay with that too. How else could a gunman gain his reputation, after all, without using his gun now and then? Annette Goes Undercover The sheath didn't cover it all, but it covered enough to look safe. It looked dangerous as hell, in fact, but sort-of safe too, if you know what I mean. Thus protected against the ravages of nature, looking dangerous but safe ... and hard, and very strong, and with just one thing on its smutty little mind ... I gave rein to my own, similarly smutty little thoughts. I stretched my right leg over him. I poised myself above the gentlemanly part that was beneath me, appropriately dressed and masculinely primed, and, taking hold of him some halfway up its length, I aimed the bulbous sheathed tip at the corresponding unsheathed part of me, and nervously guided its head as I gingerly descended ... part opened, part squeezed, until the tip was in the vaginal vestibule, of Graham Fillshape's lovely wife. That budding -- though currently gasping slightly-- undercover operative, who was no longer under very much cover at all. Then I stopped. I stopped -- I realised, as soon as I did -- in order to savour what was there and where, precisely, that was. And where we were. And who we were ... strangers, passing in the ... well, early evening, at least. I stopped to savour this ... this what, this sin? Is that what it was? The situation had arisen through no fault of its own. Through no fault of ours, one might argue, for neither of us planned it. We were pawns. Pawns which, once we had completed this pleasantly-anticipated interlude -- for judging by the trembling and gasping that was coming from us both, we were undoubtedly dialled up pretty high for what comes next -- would say our polite good-byes, and be on our way. An encounter earned and paid for one might say. I felt the bulbous head inside the vestibule. He was unhurried, large. Easing around, as it were. Getting used to the construction, constriction, constraint. The inner furnishings perhaps. The heat and moistly welcoming allure that is the inner part, of girl. Liking what it felt, I sensed. Wanting what it promised. A swallowed once, above; a thought of one, below, and then ... I slowly eased my weight onto this interesting point. Of view. Of him. Of where we'd got to, he and I. He didn't move. He let me do the moving, which was kind. Considerate. I reached for his hand and put it on my breast and squeezed mine over his to let him know that's what I wanted him to do. And cleverly, he did. Happy to do, to me, what I liked him to do, to me. What I wanted him to do, to me. He seemed to like doing that. Liked doing what I liked. Which I liked. I cautiously eased myself down on him and he made a face, and closed his eyes, as if I had just bequeathed on him some wondrous honour. That very look filled me with more than just the mere physical part, it filled my inner self with a glow of being wanted, and needed. Appreciated. Was this why they called it 'fulfilment"? Is that where it came from. A look like that. A feeling like this? He was deep inside me now. DEEP. Inside ME. I arched my back and urged his other hand onto my other breast. I encouraged them both to work on me. Work hard, then gentle, hard, then playful on the nipples, scratch a bit, then hard again. I squirmed and waved like a sapling impaled and encouraged his hands to be rough as my eyes, half closed, roamed the ceiling above and my lips spread wide. Then my teeth closed over a lip and I let out a groan. I had arched my back and found that the act of arching like that had the effect of increasing the amount of him gorged inside me, and the change of angle felt enthralling as his tip, deep inside, nuzzled a part of me I wasn't used to being nuzzled in this fashion. A part of me that hadn't been nuzzled before. I did it again. I coiled and stretched and arched and thrust and found that deep nuzzle again. I was doing something with my pelvis and sensitive inner parts I'd never done before. I groaned, I sense with lust. I thrust, I knew with vigour. No-one could hear us here. No-one would ever know what we had done. What we were DOING. This was a mere transaction. A business agreement, if you will. A contract, start, finish, done, pack up, go home, get on with life. A note in the margin of existence. The hurly burly of business. Albeit a form of hurly burly that took you places most transactions didn't. A hurly burly you had to like ... so long as you kept it a secret. Another arch, and curl, and thrust, and pelvic grind and ... there it was again. The deeply probing member finding virgin inner lands that had never been grazed like this before. It felt ... sooooooooooo good.