Deep Secret Ch. 16 - Bras

Not long after falling asleep, I woke up, really thirsty. The clock read 3:58 AM and I was beat. I stumbled, naked, into the kitchen. The tap water in town, though nationally rated highly for its quality, was not my cup of tea. I opened the refrigerator, took out a bottled water. I guzzled it like I might have guzzled a beer ten years ago as a college kid downing one in a chugging contest.

Staring absentmindedly into the Simone's refrigerator, I was a little disappointed at how little was there for breakfast, at least for when breakfast came after I got some more sleep. As I wasn't the least bit hungry I dealt with the disappointment like a man and hid my feelings.

My thirst satisfied, I climbed back into her warm bed, my disappointment further dissipated the moment I felt her smooth, firm skin. This time I was out for the night.

We woke up late, for us, on Sunday morning. Without moving I could just see the clock on the nightstand; it was a little after 9:00. The apartment had the pleasant, homey aroma of still-hot embers in the fireplace.

Although I vaguely remember seeing Simone -- whose naked back was pressed against my own and added to the good feeling, probably atavistic, of being safe and warm -- pull the drapes closed last night, the room this morning appeared brighter than I remembered, but we rarely stayed at her place. And, we were rarely thinking about the lighting if we were in bed at that hour.

Quietly dragging myself out of bed, I took care of my morning ablutions, slipped on some sweats, closed the bedroom door, and made my way to the kitchen. I needed some coffee, lots of coffee. Maybe an IV would be the simplest way to go.

As I began the coffee making ritual, filling the coffee maker with water from the tap, I looked outside and saw why the place was so bright. We'd had more than just a light dusting of snow, but now the sun was trying to come out, making the world a UVA or UVB hazard. It was a surprise to have snow so early in the season; it was still October.

The Sunday paper was waiting at the front door of her apartment. I brought it in, plunked myself down at the kitchen table, and I got serious with the world news, sipping my coffee, after putting on some serious, but "happy," Bach keyboard music.

It occurred to me that drinking just black coffee might not be the thing to keep up my strength, especially if Simone wanted to play around before I had to leave to go work on some reading for my Economics class. I'd need my strength for sure.

"Balls," I said aloud (but thinking about the old joke: 'Balls,' said the queen, 'if I had 'em I'd be king.') looking down at my crotch, "you hear that?"

Getting up, I went to the refrigerator and found a fresh container of orange juice, some fresh vegetables, and other fixings for a great omelet, along with a post-it note with "For the morning's breakfast! --C" written on it.

How sweet! I thought to myself momentarily, before I had my next thought: This was definitely not here five hours ago when I'd gotten up to get my water.

"How sweet!" turned into "How strange!" She must have gotten up and gone out while I was asleep. Given all the events of the evening I knew she didn't go out just to get the stuff for breakfast.

And what was the "C" for?

Now I was starting to have a little bit of a freak-out. "C" could only stand for Clint the guy who'd phoned her late last night. Who was Clint? How had she knocked out three guys with her bare hands? Where had she gone?

The hell with Clint. I didn't even know who Simone was. Who was Simone?

As there was no way to get those answers until she got up, I managed to focus -- successfully for a while -- on the Sunday paper again. It was fifteen or twenty minutes later and several sections of the paper before I began to remember the events of the previous day or two, culminating in the frightening, life threatening -- and for Simone, death defying -- events of the walk back from the restaurant. Now, a passel of the previous night's questions flooded my brain and I wanted so desperately to get answers to them and countless more.

Of course Simone needed her rest and I continued reading. After a short while, though, I was still having such difficulty focusing on anything (my brain so curious about what had happened, how and what she'd done, and more importantly who she was) that I gave up, relocated to the sofa, and fell back to sleep -- two large mugs of coffee, notwithstanding.

A hint of perfume and kisses on my neck and earlobe woke me slowly, but effectively. Before opening my eyes I savored the smell of her shampoo from her short blond hair and her active caressing of the more sensitive parts of my neck. This and the sudden blood flow to my penis effectively, but only temporarily, quashed any of the questions I'd been eager to ask her.

I gave her a hug. She reciprocated with a few delicious kisses. We both sat up.

"I know, I know. You have a million questions," she said. "Let me get myself some coffee and I'll give you all the answers I can. You want a refill?"

Nodding and yawning, I enjoyed -- as always -- watching her gracile, silk robe-clad frame walk into the kitchen. A few minutes later she returned with a fresh coffee pot.

Refilling us both, she sat down on the far side of the couch, her long legs tucked under her.

"Ed, some of wh -- "

"Wait," I interrupted her. "Before you begin, there's something I wanted to ask you to do with me next weekend."

She had a look on her face: surprise, longing, disappointment? I couldn't tell.

I continued, "My company always does something special for Halloween. (Go figure, huh? A CPA firm's big do for the year is one that gives its employees a chance to obfuscate, right? I know.)," I laughed at my own words or rather my line of thought. It felt good to see the beginnings of a smile appear in her crystal blue eyes.

Then it disappeared quickly. I continued, "Usually it's just 'dress-up' day at the office, but this year the new regional vice president is having it at his house next Saturday. It's sudden notice, but I'd love it if you went with me. You've heard me talk about some of my coworkers and I'd like you to meet them."

Guilt washed over me as I thought to myself what I didn't add to that sentence: "...and I'd love to show you to them also." It's such an immature guy thing to even think. It reminded me of her comment of the other night:

Ed, I don't ever want to be someone's trophy wife.

Simone could see my emotion change too, but her look became even more intense. I could tell it was time for me to shut up and listen.

"Ed, let's discuss your party later. I need to be honest with you because it's hurting me. You see, some of what I've told you about me, about who I am, is not true."

I nodded, confused, concerned, and conflicted.

She began, "First, I want you to know that I care about you, a lot. You have all of the attributes I look for in a man. You're smart, you have a wonderful sense of humor, you're good looking, you are great in bed -- putting up with my quirky, though some might say (actually some have said) aberrant, sexual needs -- and you're a caring and genuine person.

"I couldn't ask for anything more."

Interrupting her, I blurted out "Gene Kelly, 'I Got Rhythm,' An American In Paris, 1952, right?" I knew it was rude, but the emotional temperature in the room had recently dropped ten degrees. When your girlfriend starts out by telling you how great you are and what you mean to her, you know there's bad news just around the corner. It's like getting the old, "It's-not-you-It's-me" routine.

It made her chuckle and that raised my spirits just a little. "Close," she said. "American In Paris came out in '51. It was Singin' In The Rain that was released in 1952. The rest was spot on. (Though, actually, 'I Got Rhythm' was written for Girl Crazy in 1930, but who's keepin' score?)"

For a moment I thought, maybe, we'd still be OK. Maybe we'd continue seeing one another and who knows? Maybe we'd settle down together. Maybe all the antics of the previous evening were just a fluke.

I was resting a lot of hope on those "maybes."

"Listen, Ed, you're going to feel betrayed by some of what I'm going to tell you. I know that because I was betrayed once by my two best friends. My main hope here is that you'll find it in your heart to forgive me."

Though her words seemed dispassionate, both her look and her voice betrayed her. She came across as caring but with a sadness I don't think I'd ever seen.

"OK, here's the story," she began earnestly. "I'm sort of the person you think I am, but not completely. As I've told you, I grew up in a small town pretty far from 'the city,' surrounded by lakes and woods. It was beautiful -- but also quiet and for a young person, well, 'boring' would be putting it kindly."

She reached forward to get her coffee cup. My eyes couldn't help darting to that impossibly large cupped white lace bra. (I know, here I've got the perfect woman and I'm thoughtlessly doing dumb, guy stuff.) She sipped her coffee and put the mug back on the table.

This time I didn't stare at her chest. It was a struggle, but I prevailed.

"Though I was smart and read all the time, I didn't have a lot in the way of aspirations -- and zero in the way of role models -- when I graduated high school. I had a job at a local supermarket and all I wanted to do was to party. Give me a guy's cock and I was a happy camper. Give me a bunch of cocks and I was in hog heaven.

"So what else is new, right?" she interjected. That gave me those same mixed feelings I'd been having; I was surprised when a chortle came out of me.

"In high school I was usually at my best friend's house. Her mom had had her when she was really young and she was more of a big sister than a mom. We were all very close. In fact, she gave the two of us lessons in pleasing a man. I know that sounds creepy, but it was comfortable for all of us -- including these guys who lived in this back house she rented out.

"Well, at some point in our senior year they had gotten involved with these guys and we used to party with them. It turned out that these guys were bad men. They kind of slid into drug trafficking in the local economy. Their business grew bigger during the year after we graduated.

"I didn't have a clue, but these guys as well as my friend and her mom were all involved in making these deals work. I found out later that they were involved with a large organization in trafficking in drugs, arms, money laundering, and even women and children.

"So, when I was nineteen the whole local ring was busted. I was cleared of any wrongdoing, but because I testified at the trials I was put in the witness protection program. I won't go into the details. In fact, by law I'm not allowed to mention any of this to anyone ever."

She looked at me with inquiring eyes, wanting to know my feelings about this.

I was shocked but also pretty dazed by everything she'd told me. So far it wasn't that she'd lied as much as she'd left out parts, some were the important parts. But still...

The best was yet to come, however.

"I was relocated to a town near a military base and began taking classes at a nearby university. I also started taking martial arts classes at the college. Well, one thing led to another and I got my Bachelor's and a dual Master's degree within just a few years. I also learned more than a half-dozen types of fighting skills. As time permits I'm working towards my PhD.

"Things progressed until I was invited to join an organization, a part of the government that is simply not talked about. It turned out that I was really good at learning, both mentally and physically. Oh, yeah, and I learned a few languages too."

She took a sip of her coffee, eyeing me to see my reaction to these revelations.

"The jury's still out on whether eidetic memory exists or not, but apparently I have a surprisingly accurate recall ability."

I knew that my mouth was open, but I wasn't sure if there was drool coming off my tongue or not. Words did not come to me. My beautiful girlfriend was a government operative, make that secret government operative, and could probably kill a man in two seconds without batting an eye, just using her thumb.

Holy crap!

She told me more about her work and that she was actually 24, not 22. Simone was not her real name, but she'd had several over the past five years and Simone was as good as any of them.

Skipping over much confidential detail she finally brought me up to last night. Apparently there had been a federal plan to disseminate false information to some 20-odd cities around the country because of some solid data they had that an international financial accounting firm had ties to a large and largely illegal organization. Her assignment had been to get to know me because my name had appeared along with dozens of others on a spreadsheet on a laptop.

"It wasn't that we knew you or your firm were doing anything illegal, but the plan was to put out this information and that would help us to uncover the firm and its people who are involved.

"This organization is so big that we expected them to send teams to every one of the cities. We were just not sure of the timing. We thought it wouldn't happen until the first week of November, but last night every city that was targeted had thugs go after our plants. It turned out that the bust was made in Boston. It was hugely successful and should be announced by the Feds tomorrow morning. (This, they told me, is because Sunday is not the best day for the government to announce successes.)"

With that news, she stopped, reached over and patted my knee. "I hope you're not going to get up and leave, Ed. I'm so sorry." She began to get tears in her eyes.

I'm a sucker for women with tears in their eyes. What was I supposed to do? I'd been falling in love with someone who wasn't real. Simone, or whatever her name was, didn't exist.

It was probably only to be expected. I'd never had a woman this beautiful be interested in me before. Never. Oh, sure I'd dated some hot babes, but no one who could adorn the cover of a men's magazine -- and wanted nothing more than to suck my dick.

For sure, I was an idiot.

After a few moments of quiet, she said, "Because of my appearance I've been deployed to work similar assignments, to get 'involved' with someone, most of the time just to gather data. Sometimes I was there to protect someone also."

She continued with some vague details of those kinds of assignments both domestically and internationally.

"I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you. I was just supposed to date you. You managed to get into my soul like no other man has. I'm so sorry to have to lie to you and that I hurt you."

We sat there for several uncomfortable moments. She looked at me with those beautiful eyes and all I could think was how much I wanted her. It was clear to me as I was having these feelings that I should have been angry or hurt, but all I could do was to want her even more.

"So, let me get this straight," I finally said. "You were 'assigned to me.' You had orders to meet me and find out about me and my company." I paused, thinking through some of these things. "So everything I thought we had was a lie?"

She came close and caressed my shoulders. Then she held my face between her hands, looked into my eyes, and kissed me. It was a kiss of tenderness and affection; it lasted a long while. When she finished there were tears dropping from her cheeks.

"I probably look like a mess. I look awful when I cry. That's why I don't like when I do it," she said and sat back.

After pondering some of these facts for a few moments more I said, "Simone, or whatever your name is, you're right, I do feel betrayed, but, you know, I've also felt more alive in the last couple of months than I've ever felt in my life. I've laughed more, certainly had more sex, and the best sex I've ever known. I, I... I don't know what I'm feeling."

"As I told you, Ed, I understand how learning the truth about someone you thought you knew can make you confused."

My mind tried to get a handle on things. "So, what did you do last night after I fell asleep?"

"Well, I had to meet some of my team," she said. "I can't tell you much more than that."

"You got two Masters degrees and your Bachelors in three years?"

"Yeah, well, it was more like three and a half years" she said shyly. "It turns out I'm not just a dumb blond." That made both of us smile.

"And the events of last night, those three guys?"

"Just doing my job," she told me. "It was obvious those guys weren't pros; they were just thugs. My main concern was that you wouldn't get hurt."

"Did you kill that third guy? Why didn't we hear any police cars?"

"I can't really tell you much more. Once I put those guys down, I called my contact and the whole thing disappeared. Two of those guys weren't even Americans. Their papers were fakes. We're still not sure where they're from.

"But the guy who came out of your elevator yesterday morning -- Gee, was that just 24 hours ago, it feels like a week! -- was someone whose background I knew and who was involved with this organization."

I had a million more questions now, but as we talked more she began to tell me less and less because of the nature of her work.

"So, now that you're basically done here, what's next for you, for us?"

"Ed, that's what's so hard for me. I'm pretty sure I'll be going home."

She explained that home was in the Northwest, but she worked out of Washington, D.C. Her long-term plan was to leave her post -- or take time off -- and after finishing her PhD, she wanted to go back to school to become a doctor.

"Really?" I asked her. "That would be amazing. You're so talented, smart, beautiful, funny, and caring. And I should add: just plain wonderful. I won't even go into your unique sexual skills." Then I paused for a second. "Tell me though, was all of that a fake?"

"Oh no," she said assuredly, "I really love making love to you. Well, you know I'm an absolute cockhound in general, but you always make me want to please you so much more. And, man, do you please me. I don't think I've ever known a man who could come so much and so often. That's only one of the things I love that about you -- but it's an important one for me, at least right now."

Then it hit me: she was going to leave. She'd be leaving town. And she'd be leaving me. The perfect woman, my perfect woman, was leaving.

Part of me felt crushed, but part of me wanted to savor this and every moment we'd have left -- as few as they might be.

Deciding to focus on the here and now, I moved to her side of the sofa and began to kiss her neck, grabbing a handful of tit in the process. She responded immediately with a moan at my sudden passionate attack.

God, did she feel good! How could I possibly be angry? I had convinced myself that I was with the perfect woman. Nothing would ever be the same.

Moving down to her boobs I kissed what I could of them above her bra. I had a little difficulty but eventually succeeded in shoving her bra up over those mountains so I could kiss and fondle them in all their glory. As usual it felt like I could use another couple of hands to do justice to them.

Her nipples were the size of cabernet sauvignon grapes, small berries at the early part of the season. Each was just as succulent, though, as they are later on, just before the crush. The areolas were tightened, bunched, and crinkly in an excitement response, but they were still relatively small compared to each breast. I thought at that moment that I'd known women who'd had breasts the size of just her areolas.

I knew it was hubris, but I reveled in it. To think that this incredible piece of flesh and bone and mind and soul had decided to give herself to me, even if it had begun as "an assignment," was still in itself a turn on.