Reaching An Understanding

"The very thing." (I trust your judgment. I'll try to make time for at least one of them.)

She hesitated; then, "You really have a way with words." (How can you put all that nuance into what you say?)

"Perhaps words are overrated." (I'm wearier than you can imagine of conversation.)

She licked her lips. Here we go. "Excited, are you?" (I don't want to just hop into bed. I have to believe I'm a better class than that.)

"My time is limited, I'm afraid." (I don't think of this, or you, that way. This isn't purely about physical need.)

"Then we should make the most of it." (The customer is always right.)

"Indeed." With his eyes, his tone, he asked her to stand.

She did, gracefully. Her hands came up to the back of her neck and - with a quick glance to ensure permission - she unzipped the back of her dress. Her upthrust arms, and the arch of her back, drew attention to her bosom. Her coquettish smile acknowledged the pose's deliberateness - Artistic, isn't it?

With similar practiced ease, she smoothly pulled the dress over her head and away. Her nipples were dark, and smaller than he'd expected for such sizable endowments. They did not seem out of place, however. He felt they set things off nicely, in fact.

She angled herself as she stuck out her rump, presenting it, as she slid her panties down. Not in a tawdry way; just smoothly, theatrically. She had to bend, anyway; why not make a show of it? They slipped without a hitch past her shoes, and were set neatly on top of the dress.

He appreciated the show. Greek had its own mots justes. He didn't utter the word "callipygious", but it applied precisely. Her rear was full, smooth, rounded, robustly female. If he was going to engage prostitutes, he was glad he could budget for excellent ones.

She straightened and faced him. Her pubic hair had neat triangular borders, but was thick and lush. Elsewhere she was either shaved or naturally hairless.

This moment came, in some form, every time. The moment when the woman revealed her body fully, when she felt most vulnerable. Mixed sentiments, always. Do you like this? Am I attractive? And, But I don't need your approval. And, somewhere in the background, If only this weren't necessary...

He let his eyes say it. I like it very much indeed. You are lovely.

Her apprehension - which few would have noticed, anyway - eased. That will make things simpler. And, in the background, barely a conscious thought, Nice to know I've still got it.

A flick of his eyes, a slight quirk of his mouth - You can take off the heels.

Her Thank you was similarly carried only by eyes and lips, but she smoothly and gracefully stepped out of them. Nude, now, save for her earrings. The pause that came then said, What next? Should I give you a blowjob or a kiss?

He sat down on the edge of the bed. The invitation would have been obvious to any lady of the evening, from experience. His power could add nothing there.

She accepted it, and placed herself close beside him. She leaned in, still watching carefully. But he inclined his head and their lips came together.

She smelled of woman and perfume. He found her tongue. For now, he kept things slow and gentle; he could tell it wasn't time yet for anything too bold.

Her body inched closer, offering itself for embrace. He put one arm around her - Don't mind if I do - and her breasts cushioned up against his chest delightfully.

They broke off the kiss, mutually, and a trace of smugness lurked in her smile - Like that, do you?

She undid the buttons on his shirt, one at a time, working down from the collar. She pulled the last tucked stretch from his pants, and slid it off his shoulders. His estimate of her intelligence ratcheted up a notch as she set it on the nightstand next to the bed. She'd noticed how neatly he kept the room.

Next she pulled the undershirt up, and off. Her smile didn't change, but something in her eyes expressed, That's a relief. You're in better shape than most of the guys I've done.

A trace of a smile, a ghost of a nod. I can't afford to run to fat.

The undershirt joined his shirt. Then, in a graceful segue, she slid off the bed to her knees and removed his shoes.

Just a slight tension in her shoulders. Feet never smell all that good.

A shrug. Sadly so. A flash of teeth. Fortunately, I don't have a foot fetish.

She set shoes and socks aside, a bit more soberly than was perhaps appropriate. Her eyes met his, even as her hands met his belt. How can I understand you like this?

A shrug. My gift. Rueful twitch of the head. And curse.

His zipper was undone. I'm sorry, could you move a little? He shifted and his pants came off and went onto the pile. All that was left was his underwear.

She grinned, small but genuine. "I guess you are excited." (Got a tent pole there.)

He stood with a smile. "As if there was doubt." (And why shouldn't I be?)

She slid his underwear down. A tiny flip of her head. You'd be surprised what some guys need to get going.

He was as nude as she, now. "Mmmmm," she purred, examining his member. (Good size. Not too big, not too small. Comfortable. Clean, even.) One hand grasped gently, guiding the end into her mouth.

He stiffened, in two ways. I don't wish to finish off in this manner...

She sensed it, of course. An amused eye-roll, the odd sensation of a smile wrapped around his prick. Relax. I know what I'm doing.

A few seconds later, he gasped. "I... see your point." (That tongue is impressive.)

He was never sure, afterward, if it was his paranormal expressiveness or her own experience that told her just when to stop. She wiped off her lips with the back of her hand - somehow ladylike even in practicality - and rose off her knees.

He placed a hand on her hip. The way she breathed, the slight turning of her leg, guided his hand up her back. She didn't want him holding her behind yet.

Instead he pulled her tight, forcefully but not threateningly. One hand brushed a nipple as he nuzzled her face. One of her legs curled up, rubbed the side of his.

They kissed, and caressed each other. His erection rubbed her belly and hip, and he enjoyed that, but she - and perforce, he - didn't want to rush. Her hair smelled clean, with a hint of fruit - perhaps apple? The curls tickled his nose. For her part, she ran her hands on his back, and up the side of his leg. I don't have to pretend to like what you're doing, her open mouth said.

Surprise lurked in the corner of her eyes, in the edge of her lips, in her hesitant hands. She was amazed at the shallowness of her breath, at the goose-pimples on her skin. Being too aroused was unprofessional; the focus had to be on the client.

He smiled and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I know. It pleases me that you are pleased.

Her nearly-invisible blush said, Damn it, I didn't want you to see...

It was a weakness, he knew, a personal failing. In its outline, even, an everyday and pedestrian failing. Women found wealthy or powerful men attractive - advantageous, at least - so opportunity was easy to come by. And any class of men who operate on the fringes, shielded from legal oversight, will find it easy to slip from moral oversight as well. An entire branch of spycraft involved managing one's own mistresses while working to suborn those of others.

But the reasons for his particular fall from grace were unique. As a professor, the most he'd had to face was an occasional coed attempting to physically pry a better grade from him. He'd gently dissuaded them. In the CIS... analysts were not powerful. Even when Scylla had become a modestly successful security contractor he had never strayed from Portia. Flesh, even beautiful flesh, he could appreciate without having to conquer.

No, there was something quite different at the heart of it. It wasn't true that power per se corrupted. It was just that, for any man, there was a sufficient amount of power that would corrupt. And there was a side effect of his paranormality, a consequence no one deduced. The real reason he hired escorts from time to time. An entirely unexpected power he'd discovered that first night, clinging to his wife.

He, Thame Panagitis, was the greatest lover in the world.

Just a linguistics professor and military historian, really. A quiet man with only a handful of paramours, before. Not ugly, nor out of shape - he made sure his long hours behind a desk were matched by conditioning in the gym - but certainly no dashing figure. Yet, he could bring any woman willing to share his bed to ecstasy.

So he just couldn't resist.

He knew what each woman enjoyed, or disliked. At least, once the foreplay had begun. Their motions, the sounds they made, their eyes - all made perfectly clear what they wanted. They couldn't conceal the wishes of their hearts from Thame Panagitis. And he could convey - couldn't help but convey - his desires to them. Normally, sex had an element of uncertainty. But not with him.

He was no great seducer. Honesty - involuntary honesty, at least - was hardly a recipe for getting women into bed. Cajoling a woman's participation took more time than he generally had to spend, anyway. But he was a mercenary himself. He understood prostitutes.

True, he couldn't create attraction out of nothing. There had to be some spark, some glimmer of interest. One outright failure graced his past: a lesbian who'd been shocked that he could see through her act. They'd resolved it amicably; he'd even made sure she was paid.

Given just a whiff of smoke to start with, though... like an expert woodsman, he could coax it into a roaring bonfire. Few women could resist being treated precisely how they wished to be treated. This one diffidently, that one forcefully. Being caressed or kissed just so, for exactly long enough. And when a woman knows she's pleasing a man, can sense his excitement as clearly as her own...

In engineering, it was called a 'feedback loop'.

The time had come for him to slide his hand down, cup a buttock. His tongue became just a little more urgent. Her hand brushed the side of his face. I don't normally like beards. But you... use it...

They broke for a moment. He pulled her hips closer. She let out a low moan. You really want me, don't you? You're not imagining someone else...

They pulled apart slightly. He allowed his eyes to drift down to her breasts. No, indeed. She ran a hand along his chest. He was far from a muscle man, but relatively little of his body was nonfunctional fat.

He let his arm loosen slightly, let her lean back. He brought his lips to her breasts, using his tongue to circle a nipple while his beard and mustache tickled the skin around it.

"Uhhh..." she almost grunted. (Now the other one.) As if leading a dance, he guided her onto his lap as he shifted his head. She straddled one of his legs now, and his lower thigh was well-placed to stimulate her vulva when he raised his knee.

A minute or two of such diversion, and he backed off for a moment. They were both breathing heavily as her forehead rested on his shoulder. That was wild...

She raised her head, looked him in the eye. I think I'd like you inside me now.

He paused. With just his eyebrows, he asked, Would you prefer I wear a condom? It wouldn't trouble me much.

Just a moment's hesitation as she pondered. Nice to have the choice. But... She came to a decision. ...for you, no. I'm covered.

She didn't even know herself that she wanted it. Something... pure, honest. Something lovers might do, or at least two people genuinely interested in each other. Not straining for stimulation, for an experience to prod and rouse jaded appetites. Simply a man and a woman, playing the old game together. For fun.

So he didn't tickle her rosebud with a finger, didn't bend her legs back, didn't play-bite. Didn't even try to use fingers to press her clitoris. He simply guided her around him onto the bed, let her arrange herself as she chose, and moved to mount her.

The tilt of her hips, the curl of her toes - they told him how fast to proceed, and at what angle.

She might, out of pride, have withheld her climax. Not allowed him to push her to that point, seeing it as weakness - the kind of weakness no hooker could afford. A John might purchase a lease on her body. So what? Her body was not her sexuality.

But she didn't. He simply wished to take pleasure in her pleasure, not count triumph in stealing her self-control. As with anything he conveyed, there could be no mistake.

And so, again because it was her choice, she chose to let go. To let him give her that pleasure.

He bent low, still moving his hips, and gave her the gentlest of kisses. His hand ran steadily up her flanks, from hips along up near her breasts.

She bit her lip. So good, so good... She opened her eyes, looked at his face over her. One hand came up, brushed his cheek. Don't stop...

An extra-forceful thrust. I have no wish to.

Her hips pushed back at him; she moaned. Now, now...

Most of his weight on one elbow, he entwined one hand with hers. Not yet...

"Aaaah!" (Oh please...) Her calves rubbed his ass, urging him forward.

He nuzzled her ear, still moving his hips. Not quite yet...

"Oh! Oh God!" (I can't take it anymore! You have to...)

"Rrrruh!" (Now.) He shifted up and forward, just a touch, just enough to give her - and him - extra pressure in the right locations.

She screamed as they came, together, both swept away in ecstatic currents echoing back and forth between them. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh, please! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeaaaahhhh!"

He savored another of those far-too-rare moments where words matched identically with their subtext.

----------

She curled at his side, one finger tickling his chest hair. She seemed to realize, now, that no words were needed. That her actions themselves said, Thank you.

A shift of his head, a gentle sigh. Thank you, too. It wasn't love, could never be love. It wasn't even a relationship. But there was a connection, now, a mutual recognition of humanity.

With regret, he let go of her shoulder, slowly but deliberately. I'm afraid I must get back to work.

She sat up. I'm disappointed. And she smiled as she stood to look for her clothes. Which is not how I usually feel.

His own smile said, I wish we could linger, as well. But I have responsibilities.

Candace dressed in relaxed silence. Then her eyes met his, one last time. "Good night." (I'll remember this night the rest of my life.)

He nodded, just slightly. "Good night." (So will I.) It wasn't - couldn't be - a lie.

She turned and went to the door. After she left, Stephan peered in, checking, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Everything okay?

The corners of Thame's mouth quirked up. Yes, yes, all is well. Pay her in full.

Stephan nodded and stepped back. The door closed.

He took a deep breath. It was late; it might be a good idea to get some sleep. He wanted to be on his game when he met with the potential client tomorrow. A little straightforward corporate espionage could be a refreshing change of pace.

It had been the riskiest possible choice. Taking a place at the table himself, joining the game. Gathering sufficient power to mount a credible deterrent, while at the same time becoming useful enough not to be perceived as a threat requiring neutralization.

At first it had been a race to find and recruit those special individuals the White Event had... created? Activated? Announced? For a few months, it had been easy. Intelligence types were the most skeptical people on the planet, aways wary of disinformation and hoaxes.

But even they could see reality, eventually. By now there was actual competition. They were called 'paranormal resources' or 'exotic assets' or 'extraordinary operatives' - as yet only in classified briefings.

Eventually, Thame new, the wider world would discover the Event had inaugurated a new era. Probably soon, something undeniable would happen, in front of cameras. But for now, it was being kept quiet.

His wasn't - could never be - a stable situation. He had to strike such a careful balance, juggle so many variables, straddle so many risk/benefit tradeoffs. A constant dance, staying powerful enough to be valuable, and valuable enough to be allowed to be powerful.

He'd struck that balance so far. He'd put together a... collection. 'Team' was probably too strong a term. But they worked together effectively enough, and had already accomplished remarkable things.

His eye fell on the slim case across the room. A few briefings remained. Finding new paranormals was usually time-sensitive...

Sighing, he rose out of the covers, slipped on a robe, and sat at his desk. He unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a classified report.

The CIS had been created by, and from, the CIA of the United States. For its first several years, the CIA had actually funded the CIS' payroll. Obviously ties between agencies remained tight.

Calling in favors had helped somewhat to convince his friend to pass along the occasional nugget of intel. The bribes had been much more decisive, however.

Means were irrelevant; the information was what mattered. This discussion of an escaped paranormal was highly intriguing. The dry language of an agent's transcribed account couldn't hide the fear. Not from Thame, at least.

It might be worth trying to recruit this one. Of course, he'd need at least Potiphar along. Probably George and Siegfried too, if the statements here were at all accurate... flipped over a van with his bare hands, had he?

End