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?