by Jesse Jordan
“Already passed them along,” Ian replies, referring to the RFID chips I slipped into the crates. “The Yard should get them in time.”
I laugh harshly, and even Ian chuckles. We both know that less than twenty percent of the shipment that I brought in will be confiscated by the regular police, with that going towards their own little party stash. The tracking is there so that MI5 can figure out what the gangs are up to while the power brokers in the country make sure they get their quid. It’s all fair play to them.
Ian and I exchange pleasantries while we wait on our food, watching as the rugby highlights play above the bar. “The team’s utter shite this year. You’d think with the money they’re spending, they could at least beat Canada.”
Ian shrugs, international rugby isn’t his thing. “Fuck ‘em, I’m just waiting to see the Open. They’re playing it at Royal Birkdale this year. Not St. Andrews, but still a good bloody course.”
The rugby highlights finish, changing over to the news for a few minutes. The top story makes me shiver when I see it. Chastity Hendricks. “They found her?”
Ian nods, sighing. “And you’re not going to fancy where, either.”
I turn, shocked. “You’re fucking kidding me.”
Ian shakes his head. “I wish I was. She was brought in by the tide to a beach in Athens. She hadn’t been in the water long, so she was easy to identify with that birthmark on her left shoulder. It was about the only thing they could identify on her though. The Yanks are reaching out to us on it.”
I sigh, looking over. “Who’re they sending?”
“Some lad from the CIA. Here’s his file,” Ian says, sliding a napkin across the table. Insideis the microSD card that’ll have everything, encrypted of course. I can check it later. “Take a look, he’s going to be expecting to meet you in eighteen hours.”
“Give me a lot of fucking time why don’t you?” I grumble, slipping the data card into my phone under the table. Security is going to have to take a back seat to Father Time in this instance. “With shite like this, you wonder why I don’t come visit more often.”
“I figured it was because you like the weather better there,” Ian says. “Tell me why you’re the field agent and I just get to haunt pubs again?”
“Because I’m the one that’s hot as hell, and you can’t teach that,” I reply with a chuckle. “Besides, if I spent all my time in pubs, I’d never get work done, I’d be too busy fending off horny chaps.”
Ian takes a look at me, noting like it’s the first time tonight that I’ve got a body to go with my personality. It’s one of the reasons that I like Ian, actually. He notices my face more than my tits. “Hmm, I feel bad for any man that hits on you without you being keen. You’d most likely break their arm. Or their heart.”
After finishing a quick meal, I go out to my car, feeling frustration. Chastity Hendricks, why the fuck did you have to get yourself kidnapped and die in my fucking territory anyway? I feel for you, but I’m worried about what your death means.
Knowing I need some help, I pull out my phone, calling a name that I really wish I had a chance to use more often. Sadly, our respective schedules keeps us from that. “Hello, Larissa.”
“Rodrigo, and how are you and my friend Jessica doing today?” I ask, making sure to emphasize my British accent. It’s the one way that we can verify quickly if I’m speaking to a fellow Deep Cover agent, or a fellow capo within The Network, the criminal empire we’re both members of. “I do hope that your news of her pregnancy wasn’t a trick?”
“Jessica is coming along just fine,” Rodrigo answers. “Actually, I was going to meet her for an early dinner, I have some work to do tonight. A shipment coming in from Scoglitti.”
“He’s been busy, I just handled a shipment from him a few hours ago. However, I’m calling on another issue. Chastity Hendricks.”
Rodrigo sighs, and I’m sure his FBI contacts have been bugging him about it. “When I heard she washed up in Greece, I thought I’d hear from you. What are your people saying?”
“They’re saying that I get to meet up with a member of your CIA to help him ‘investigate.’ I haven’t had a chance to look over his file yet. What are you hearing?”
“Less than you. Be careful with anyone CIA though, they tend to be assholes.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “You know Rodrigo, the last asshole American guy I met ended up turning out pretty well. Settled down, got married, and he might actually be a decent man some day.”
“Aww, thanks. But I’m serious, Larissa. Those guys, they have their own rulebook and they run by it. You watch your ass.”
I laugh, getting in a little flirt with Rodrigo. We never hooked up prior to Jessica entering his life, but he’s certainly handsome enough. “You know I’ve got enough people watching my ass anyway. Just left thirty of them as I walked out of a pub. Okay then, can you keep me up to date? I’ve got to clear this guy through Scoglitti and Rachmaninoff or else I might find myself with a big problem.”
“I’ll handle that,” Rodrigo says, taking at least a little bit of the load off my mind. Why did I never tell him I was also Deep Cover for so long? “I’ve got a few high ups around here that I can say sent him. I’ll give a cover story of him being a private contractor. That’ll give you some flexibility with him.”
“Thanks. Let me go let off some stress, and then get back home. Give Jessica a nice spanking from me to show her how fond I am, please,” I tease, making Rodrigo laugh. “Take care.”
After hanging up, I’m still nervous and frustrated. A high profile case, the CIA involved, and I’m going to have to walk a tightrope between my position within The Network and getting justice for Chastity Hendricks. I may be upset that the girl got dumped in my area, but still for her to have that happen to her at all… it gives me bad thoughts of the bad times, and I need to work those out.
I drive to Canary Wharf, where in One Canada Square I find what I hope will help. Anyone going to the lobby or outside of the iconic skyscraper thinks that the thirty meter tall pyramid ‘roof’ is just that, decoration more or less. How wrong they are, as I take the key card only elevator up and get out in The Valley Of The Kings, the BDSM themed nightclub owned by The Network. Invitation only, and for most members a yearly fee higher than the average yearly Londoner’s salary makes it safe.
“I want a man,” I tell the manager, who I’ve fucked before. Decent fuck, but so not my type. “Someone who doesn’t mind being made my bitch.”
“For you Mistress Dryad,” the manager says, using my name within The Network, “I’m sure the line will be long and distinguished.”
“Shut the fuck up and send them to the private dungeon,” I reply, heading for the room that again only a very few people have the key to. I change, putting on my domination gear, a short black patent leather skirt and corset bustier, leather gloves and my knee high boots, no panties needed. Usually, the supple leather at least makes me a little wet, but right now I’m too frustrated and angry.
There’s a knock at the door, and a man wearing nothing but a little leather thong comes in. I can tell right away he’s one of the ‘financial members,’ those pathetic executive slobs who during the day act like they run the world, when at night they pay through the nose for what I’m about to do.
“Is this the best this fucking shitstain of a city can provide? A worthless sack of shit like you?” I ask, not playing around at all. I may be dominating, but what I really want is a man who can take everything I dish out, and be willing to turn it around on me. Unfortunately, I’m a spoiled switch. It takes a very impressive specimen to bring out my submissive side.
“Yes Mistress,” the slave says, his pale skin stretched over a body that at least has some decent gym muscles. He spends his time at the fitness center it seems. “How may I serve you?”
“Oh, let’s see what I can do to have some fucking fun,” I growl, an evil smile coming to my lips that makes the slave shiver.
Forty minutes later I’m
even more frustrated as the slave whimpers and whines, his back streaked with the marks of the whip, while his gaping asshole barely gives me any resistance at all as I fuck his pathetic ass with my double ended strap-on.
“Come on, bitch! At least give me a little bit of work for my fucking pussy!” I yell, pissed off. I slap him in the back of the head with my flog and he starts crying, sobbing as he breaks. He’s already come, my dildo up his ass making him splatter all over the floor, and I shake my head, enraged. “Fucking pussy bitch. Get the fuck out!”
The slave tries but can’t stand up, so I kick him in the ass before getting one of the assistants to drag him out. “Tell the manager that bitch’s membership’s revoked for this room. I see him in here again, and I’m taking my biggest whip to the manager’s ass, got it?”
“Yes Mistress,” the assistant says. He’s well built, too bad his thing is totally non-sexual. Although I guess he probably either creams his jeans or maybe goes somewhere else to get his rocks off.
It doesn’t matter, I close the door in his face and turn around, angrily stripping off my strap-on, frustration overwhelming me. Usually that’s my go-to, whenever I need to work off the stress and get a good orgasm, pegging a slave at least is kinky enough that it helps.
The problem is, I don’t want just the kinkiness any more. Since seeing what’s built between Rodrigo and Jessica, I’ve started to want more than just nights of wanton kink and heaps of sex. I want a man, a real fucking man. Rodrigo is one, but while I’m a horny bitch, I’m not the kind to try and fuck with someone’s relationship unless it’s work, and those two are friends.
Desperate to get off, I go over to the ‘toy box’ and take out another vibrator, a smaller one normally used on women and lay down on the bed in the room, my pussy at least moist after forty minutes of dominating the bitch I just threw out of here. The vibrator feels good though, and as I slide it between my pussy lips, I close my eyes, letting my fantasies play out.
Tall… I want a tall man, with strong muscles but not bodybuilder bulky. A man who knows how to move, how to fight… I want a real man, confident and yes, dominating, but also who knows how to be tender. Someone smart, smart enough to really understand me, who can understand the reality of my life, and not judge me from one side or another. Someone better than the shit that I deal with most of the time.
My body warms as my fantasy man flutters in my mind while I pump the vibrator in and out of my pussy. The build inside me is quick and harsh, and I pull the vibrator out, putting the tip of it right against my clit and groaning as my body responds.
Mmmm… if he can eat my pussy too, that’d be a bonus. Actually, if he has no limits at all that’d be nice, someone who’s willing to do what it takes to get himself and me off…
I groan, the image of my dream man licking my pussy, his tongue fluttering over my clit sending ripples through me. My hips lift on their own, grinding against my vibrator as I imagine riding my man’s face, his tongue driving me wild.
My orgasm breaks, the release bitter as my fantasies dissolve, and I’m taken from a fantasy man to a dimly lit dungeon that smells of sweat and sadness. I shake my head and turn off my vibrator. Maybe I’m just being stupid, maybe seeing a miracle once in Rodrigo finding Jessica has me thinking lightning can strike twice, but I need more than just a good fucking.
And lately I haven’t even been getting that.
Stephen
The Virgin Atlantic Airbus dips slightly as the pilot adjusts to some weather up ahead, and I’m reminded why there are some perks to working for the Central Intelligence Agency. Perhaps it’d be cheaper for the government to send me in economy class, and I’m sure that most government agencies do. But when I’ve got ten hours of air travel on a red-eye flight, being able to stretch out in my own semi-private ‘pod’ and review my files before trying to catch a nap helps.
Actually, I’ve been trying to sleep since the plane took off, but every time I close my eyes, I see the pale, flayed open body of Chastity Hendricks. The holes, the coroner said in their preliminary findings, were caused by scalpels, and were done in such a way so that the girl didn’t pass out. The marks on her ankles showed that she was hung, upside down most likely so that the blood rushed do her head, keeping her awake and aware even as the bastards tortured her.
Chastity Hendricks, who in her file photo is still wearing the braces that she got off just after Spring Break, and is posing in the cheerleading outfit that she wore for her high school. Chastity Hendricks, who according to her classmates loved puppy dogs, peanut butter cookies, and who in the fall had an unrequited crush on the captain of the basketball team. Chastity, who went to the spring formal with her best friend because he had a crush on her, and by all accounts gave the young man his first kiss while the DJ played the last dance, and who went to Baden-Baden with her parents and sent her now boyfriend a note saying that she couldn’t wait to get back home to see him again.
Chastity, who was found face down on the beach, her body barely recognizable as human, who was subjected to things that no person should ever have to endure. And who haunts me every time I close my eyes.
I adjust my seat angle a little and look over my contact information again, trying to get my mind off of Chastity and onto something more useful. Larissa ‘The Dryad’ Moraitis is a Deep Cover MI6 Agent, and one of their most accomplished, having successfully worked her way up to a capo position within The Network, an international cartel that has connections throughout the world. She’s done it while still continuing to be an active MI6 agent, too. While she’s not the only Deep Cover operative in The Network, apparently my cover story was organized by another operative, she’s been in The Network longer, nearly eight years.
Her work is impressive too. She’s been an assassin for both The Network and MI6, taking out targets throughout Europe and Asia, with even a few hits in Africa. While I’ve had to kill a few people in my time in the CIA, Moraitis’ body count makes me look like a rookie agent. And she’s gotten a lot of information that she’s passed back to the Brits that have let them bust up quite a few of the gangs in their country.
It’s how she gets her information that turns my stomach, while at the same time stirs something in me just a little bit lower. She’s got computer skills, martial arts skills, she’s fluent in Greek, Italian, Arabic and English… but her preferred method of elimination is to seduce and then poison her targets while they’re still so distracted from the sex. Apparently she’s quite good at it. And she’s got no limits on who she’s willing to hit, based off the list of her known kills. I can appreciate her dedication to her craft, at least. Still, the way she does it… fucking and then killing her targets?
I shake my head, trying not to cast doubt. There’s got to be a reason that she operates the way she does. I flip to her contact information, immediately struck by how beautiful this woman is. Long, coal black hair that has just a little bit of wave to it, olive skin that glows with an inner deep amber light, plump, luscious lips that make me think of what she can do with them, but most of all her eyes. Violet eyes framed by almost impossibly long lashes that lay like dark butterfly’s wings on her innocent looking cheeks. Anyone distracted by her lashes and cheeks though is a fool, those eyes tell a totally different story. They’re full of knowledge, and I wonder… never mind, I’ve got a job to do.
I read the rest of my file again before I close my eyes, knowing I’ve still got a few hours to Berlin. Even if it’s going to be spotty, even if I’m going to be chased by images of Chastity Hendricks, I need to try. I can use the sleep before I change planes, unfortunately there’s no direct flights to Athens. Ah well, maybe I can grab a decent bratwurst while I wait.
“Fucking kidding me,” I grumble, looking at my phone. The message doesn’t change though, and I sigh. Less than a half hour in Greece, and I’m already dealing with stupid shit.
Cannot meet in Athens. Rental in your name at the Sixt counter. Call me when you get to town.
Is she f
ucking kidding me? Either way, I pick up my single travel bag and look for the car rental counters. There’s a sign for Avis, for Enterprise, Hertz, but I don’t see Sixt. Finally, I give up and go to one of the counters. “Excuse me, where’s the Sixt counter? I have a reservation there.”
“Sixt?” the worker says, chuckling arrogantly. At least he has pretty good English. “They’re a half kilometer outside the airport.”
“Fuck,” I mutter, it seems to be my new favorite word right this minute. “How do I get there? Do they have a shuttle?”
The counter worker shakes his head, and pulls out a map. He circles a spot, handing it to me. “Here. It’s pretty easy, but just be sure. Follow the signs to the short term parking exit, then turn right. Keep straight, you’ll see them on your left.”
“Thanks,” I reply, picking up my bag again. “Glad I packed light.”
“You sure you want to keep that reservation? I can get you into a Fiat no problem, just as cheap.”
I shake my head, waving him off. “Thanks, but company car, you know.”
I start off, muttering to myself as I do. British or not, Deep Cover or not, trying to be a capo (or is it capa?), this is just fucking rude. When we get face to face, I’m going to have a sit down with Larissa Moraitis.
I get to the airport gate and turn right like the guy at the counter said, angry thoughts of teaching her just who the fuck is the boss filling my mind when I hear the footsteps behind me. It’s dark, I landed on one of the last flights into Athens, so the streets are quieter than normal.
The two men are dirty, clearly up to no good as one of them pulls a knife. There’s no time to talk, I just move, kicking the wrist of the one with the knife while ducking the sucker punch his partner was going for with the brass knucks in his hand. Side stepping, I crush Knuck’s knee in with a stomping side kick that breaks his leg while making sure he’s going to spend at least six months in rehab for ACL surgery after this.
