The Commander Ch. 05bydeltablonde©
This is my first erotic story -- I welcome all feedback.
Paris was a fantastic long weekend. We stayed at the Raphael Hotel near the Arc de Triomphe. Boissy's Café was a big hit on Friday night -- our waiter remembered us from the last time Jet and Fiona were there. More likely, he remembered Fiona. We had a fabulous meal that, in true Parisian style, took hours to serve and enjoy. The Seine River boat cruise on Saturday night was even better. We had a small luxury yacht all to ourselves with a seven course dinner served on fine china and silverware while we sailed lazily down river through the heart of Paris and back over five hours. A crew of at least twelve catered to our every whim, including an on-board sommelier who paired each dinner course with its own wine. A tinted overhead glass canopy on the yacht let us watch the sights drift by while we sipped and dined, but the privacy tinting preventing onlookers from peering inwards.
Fiona was enthralled by the opulence and attention. "I could really get used to this," she smiled as our privately hired yacht pulled into its final moorings. I silently agreed wholeheartedly.
"To the one percent," I toasted, clinking my crystal glass of Louis XIII Remy Martin Cognac to Fiona's 1982 Dom Pérignon Champagne. Her exquisite blue eyes sparkled in magnificent reply as we drew the last sips of our aperitifs. If I had to pin it down the exact moment, it would have to be that instant when I gazed into Fiona's eyes. It was then I began to understand Fiona's beauty transcends her stunning appearances. Beauty precariously incubated somewhere deep inside Fiona, and like a fragile seed, with the right nourishment and tender cultivation, Fiona's beauty blossomed into an unpretentious brilliance that bewitched everyone around her. But without devoted caretaking, Fiona's inner beauty withered and faltered, as it did under the old Jet.
It was on that evening I began reflecting upon King Arthur's Court of Camelot -- 'might for right' instead of 'might is right'. That was the moment I began to question my mind-transfer motives. Supposing I could use my power for good? Supposing I started with Fiona? Supposing I am saying that night was the first time I felt a compelling desire to be the guardian devoted to nourishing, cultivating, and protecting Fiona's beauty
Lest you fear I was going limp, I had no intention whatsoever of giving up mind-blowing sex with lots of women. It is just that I discovered within an undeniable stirring toward Fiona. After all, I was invincible, and I could have it all.
We took all of Sunday to walk just three miles from the Champ de Mars where the Eiffel Tower stands, through hundreds of the little streets and alleyways, ending up at Saint-Michel, not far from the Notre Dame Cathedral. We stopped at two of the hundreds of cafes along the way and enjoyed café crème, baguettes, cheese, pate, and sweets. Countless boutiques captured Fiona's attention along our walk, but we were on foot, so she limited her shopping spree to things we could easily carry. That night in the Latin Quarter we found an authentic Greek restaurant where they actually tossed plates to the floor. For hours a few men working at the restaurant, who seemed to have no other purpose, smashed hundreds of plates. Late in the evening the men got up and danced around their pile of broken tableware, and soon invited Fiona to join them. Even wearing casual Jeans and a sweater, Fiona turned every head in the crowded restaurant while she laughed and giggled in a nursery-rhyme-like circular dance around the rubble while holding hands with men on either side of her who chanted Greek songs with vigor and pride. Everyone in the restaurant saw the same unpretentious beauty as I did when Fiona whirled around the broken plates with the unguarded innocence and abandoned delight of a carefree child. When at last she grew dizzy, Fiona returned to our table, leaving the love stricken men to call out "Come back pretty lady!" For that instant -- just that instant -- Fiona was bubbling with nothing but happiness -- at the restaurant -- at the dancing -- at the day -- at our trip -- at everything -- at life. I left a 400 Euro tip on a 200 Euro meal. You would have agreed that was an amazing deal in my favor had you seen Fiona's face that night.
On Monday we visited the Louvre. A proper viewing probably requires days, but we just stayed a few hours before we walked up the hill to Montmartre and toured the Basilica. Late in the day we took a taxi to a back street off Rue de Grenelle, not far from the Eiffel Tower. From my former life I knew of a tiny, impossible-to-find restaurant called Le Petit Paname (The Little Paris). No foreigners ever go there, but we at last found it (there are no signs for it), and we enjoyed a genuine French meal void of all the tourist trappings. There was no menu, no prices. We sat down, and over the next four unhurried hours, they served us quite simply the best meal I have ever tasted.
We caught our on-time flight on Tuesday morning and touched down Stateside Tuesday afternoon. I never had occasion to skip anyone else on our trip, although I did skip Fiona for the flight back home. Not that I could have skipped anyone in Paris anyway -- I was pretty sure I could not coherently connect with a French speaking person. My only concern was the passport check when we landed in Paris -- the check-in agent on our flight leaving America refused to board us, claiming Fiona's passport, while valid, was technically inadmissible to the EU. The boarding agent changed her mind after I skipped her. The customs official at Charles de Gaulle Airport didn't even notice the discrepancy, and he stamped our passports robotically.
Fiona and I made tender love every night in Paris, and every morning she kick-started my day with a deep throat blowjob. We had no three- or four-ways. It was just us.
I gave Fiona a secret gift only I could offer during our car ride to the airport. I skipped her, and told her she would remain calm and relaxed, and she would not be nervous or scared about flying. It worked like a charm. As we lifted off runway 27L at Charles de Gaulle airport, Fiona took my hand, and with a heartwarming smile she told me that was the nicest weekend she ever had.
Fiona watched a movie on her business class entertainment system while I listened to Jet's iPod. Jet and the former me shared a small cross section of musical tastes, like Weather Report, Santana, and Dallas Green (City and Color). While I let the music weave through my thoughts, I mentally compiled a list of questions I needed answers to.
What does Jet do? I thought he had a job, but no one has been calling to ask him where he has been since I jumped him. His financial papers don't show employment income.
Does he have social activities (sports, hobbies, friends, whatever) that will notice his absence?
How does Jet pay his bills? I just racked up over $50,000 this weekend on credit cards, and I needed to pay them off.
How did Fiona and Nicole really happen upon each other after our night at The Arc? It seemed too convenient they just bumped into each other only two days later.
Where does Jet keep his sex toys? I picked up BDSM memories from both Jet and Fiona during separate jumps, but I never found any equipment in the condo.
What secrets does Jet have that can hurt me? He was cheating with at least one other girl -- were there more? He blackmailed Fiona into sexual slavery -- does he have a sordid or even criminal past that can catch up to him, and me?
Why isn't Jet doing anything with his money? He has millions just sitting in bonds and mutual investments, and one investment property, but he is not really making his money work for him. Is he lazy, financially stupid, risk-adverse, or are there mitigating circumstances I hadn't yet discovered?
How did Jet learn about Fiona's dash cam evidence if she wasn't even aware she had been in an accident? Did he review her dash cam videos every night? Was there damage to the Mercedes that caused Jet to investigate?
But one question came back over and over again. Every time I pushed it aside, it infiltrated the fibers of my conciseness, and wormed its way back to question number one.
Is Fiona's twin sister identical, and if not, is she as smoking hot as Fiona?
I had won a bet with Fiona, and my bounty was a three-way with her twin sister. I did my best to focus on just Fiona in Paris, but on the return flight I found myself obsessing on the imagery of doing two Fiona's at once. While listening to Bird Land, I started crafting a plan that would act on all my goals.
We arrived at our condo at six in the evening, which was midnight Paris time. We stayed up a few more hours to reacclimatize our body clocks to our native time zone, but by nine we were both dead on our feet, so we went to bed. As so often happens after transatlantic travel, we both woke up around four in the morning with our biorhythms straddled somewhere between Paris and our home time zones.
Fiona picked up a magazine and I downloaded a Michael Connelly book onto Jet's tablet. We both read in bed for about an hour. Fiona put down the magazine, turned off her bedside light, rolled over, and waited for sleep to overtake her again. Before she drifted off, I gently touched her shoulder and skipped her.
I told Fiona she would answer all my questions, and she would not remember this conversation. I started with my list of questions from the airplane.
I learned Jet has a job ... sort of. He started his own investment advice company, but Fiona didn't think he had any customers. I was not surprised based on his vanilla investment portfolio. She said there was an actual office somewhere -- she didn't know where the office is -- she had never been there.
Jet plays pick-up basketball on Thursday nights, but he was not a league where his absence would be noticed. I don't know basketball, so I Jet had seen his last free throw. He had a few friends that he never introduced to Fiona. I would have to wait for them to call me.
Fiona had no idea about Jet's finances -- he never discussed them with her. She had no idea of Jet's worth.
Nicole had walked up to Fiona in the parking lot of a shoe store. It hadn't occurred to Fiona that Nicole might have manufactured the coincidental meeting. That was a dead end.
Jet has a storage room in the garage of the condo building -- Fiona has never been in it, but she suspects Jet keeps all his sex toys there. I found that curious, as it indicates a certain amount of premeditation and planning to begin a BDSM scene. It takes all the spontaneity out of it.
Fiona didn't even know about the dash cam until Jet showed her the video. Apparently Jet had the factory installed rear view mirror replaced with a mirror with an embedded dash cam before he first gave the Mercedes to Fiona. That implied an obsession with a dominant control over Fiona -- I suspected the old Jet routinely viewed the dash cam videos, probably to spy on Fiona, and he likely happened across the accident while reviewing her videos. That implied there may be other clandestine recording devices I need to be alert to.
I saved her twin sister to last. Yes, she is identical. Jocelyn lives in San Antonio, Texas near where Fiona and Jocelyn grew up. She is divorced without kids. Fiona regretted making that bet, because, while identical in looks, Jocelyn is the opposite personality of Fiona -- Jocelyn is conniving and manipulative. Fiona was convinced that, just when Jet seemed to be turning into a nice guy, Fiona will lose Jet if Jocelyn entered the picture.
Fiona has a lifetime of memories of Jocelyn always getting her own way through charm and sexual deception. It was not so much a way to advance her status or fortune, but more of a game -- a one-upmanship sport with a trail of broken promises and crushed hearts as trophies. Jocelyn had stolen Fiona's boyfriends before, and then just dumped them afterwards, for no other reason than she could.
Fiona was worried that Jocelyn expressed an unhealthy interest for Jet, even going so far as asking Jet if he ever wanted to have a three way with twin girls the first time Jocelyn met Jet. Fiona was convinced that, if Jocelyn ever stole Jet away, she would bleed his money dry and then callously toss Jet into her deep pile of relationship carcasses.
Fiona confessed Jet's money and divine cock were major factors in Fiona's initial attraction to him. After Jet blackmailed Fiona to service him, she hated Jet. Since Jet's transformation, she has felt an increasing desire to make the relationship work. Jocelyn threatens all that.
Before I unskipped Fiona, I left two post-hypnotic suggestions with her. From now on, every time she lied to me -- even little white lies -- Fiona would quietly, slowly make a gentle fist with her left hand, and every time I said the word "fireplace" she would blink twice. She would do these things without realizing it. When she said she understood, I told Fiona to lie down and go back to sleep. As Fiona started to drift off, I touched back of her neck and took away the skip.
While Fiona slept the morning away, I searched the entire condo, inch by inch, top to bottom, but I found nothing that looked like a clandestine recording device. From my earlier life as a security professional, I was quite certain I hadn't missed anything.
Next I rifled through Jet's office desk, and found a set of keys. I took the elevator to the parking garage, and started where the BMW was parked. As soon as I saw it, I realized I had missed its significance before. There, where the BMW was parked, was a sign marked '902' -- the condo unit number. I had always assumed the sign was there to reserve the parking spot, but I now realized the sign was mounted on a door painted the same color as the wall, and the BMW was parked at the door. Fiona's Mercedes was parked beside the BMW.
I now realized the '902' sign identified the door to Jet's storage room. I pulled out the keys, and the third one I tried worked. Inside was a small concrete room with no windows -- about six by eight feet. Along one side wall and the back were shelves with boxes and plastic tubs. Along a third wall was a table.
I turned on the light switch and closed the door. There was a laptop sitting on the table. Also on the table was a WiFi wireless hub with wired ports, and I traced an Ethernet cable to a high capacity industrial data server sitting underneath the table. A battery backup power supply protected the equipment against power failures or voltage spikes. From my security days I knew this was a serious set-up. The data server alone cost over ten thousand dollars.
I tried logging in to the Windows laptop computer, but the account was password protected. Using an old trick, I rebooted the laptop computer and brought up the hidden administrator account, and tried logging into it using 'Admin' as both username and password. It was a lazy shortcut many security illiterate people use when they first set up their computer. It worked -- I was in as the root administrator, giving me access to every file in the system.
The laptop seemed to have no other purpose than to access the file server. Browsing through the files, I realized they were proprietary file types -- I didn't recognize the three-letter suffix. I double clicked on one at random, and up popped a dash cam video viewer application. The interface was more complex and informative than the video I saw on the memory chip. In addition to the exterior and interior videos, there was also a real-time map, presumably displaying the GPS encoded position of the car at the time the video was taken.
I closed the application, and then browsed through all the files, and paid close attention to the date stamps, and that is when I got worried. There was one date stamp per day -- and the most recent ones came from just before we went to Paris -- long after I jumped Jet for good.
Then I got it. There was a WiFi hub in this room, and both cars were parked on the other side of the door. Every night, the laptop connected to the dash cam using the WiFi, and downloaded the videos from the past 24 hours. The dash camera likely recorded only when the car is turned on, and that explained why there were some days with no files -- the car sat in the garage all day.
I thought back to the time I leaped from Jake to Fiona in the spa parking lot. I remembered the Mercedes top was down -- the rearward facing camera probably saw Jake approach Fiona from behind and touch her. Then I thought to when I released her later that night in a parking lot down the road -- that was the real me! I might be on Jet's video collection. I worked backwards in my mind, and reconstructed the date that happened. I pulled up the video file from the morning after, and I sped through the dash cam video in ultra-fast forward. When I got to the spa parking lot, I slowed down to normal speed. And there was Jake -- clearly identifiable, walking up to Fiona, touching her, they talked, and then Jake went around the back of the car and got in the passenger side. I sped forward to Jake's apartment building, and then the video jumped to Fiona getting back in the car and driving home to her condo. Next the video cut to Fiona getting in the car, but it was dark. The roof was closed. She drove to a parking lot. She got out of the car. The video jumped again, and Fiona was in the car and lowered the driver's window. Someone was outside the car, I couldn't see who it was, but a voice distinctly said "Sleep for a short while," and Fiona fell asleep. I saw an arm reach in, touch Fiona's arm, and the arm disappeared out the window. Finally, I saw a car pull around behind Fiona's car and honk the horn. Fiona stirred, and the car drove off.
If the old Jet saw this he would have gone ballistic -- he certainly would have confronted Fiona with it. By then Jet was probably still reeling from the emailed video from The Commander and his crushed baby finger. Is it possible he stopped looking at the dash cam videos during that time?
I noticed the laptop had a file shredder icon on the Windows desktop. I dragged the video file icon for that day's dash cam video to the shredder, and permanently deleted the file beyond any hope of restoration.
Then I looked for the video file on the day Fiona had her accident with the boy on the bike. It was still there. I dragged the file to the shredder. I looked for back-up and archive copies of the files, and deleted the corresponding files there, removing every copy I was aware of.
Finally I looked for the day Fiona met up with Nicole while shopping. I found nothing unusual in that video, but I was still suspicious at Nicole's coincidental meeting.
I finished with the laptop, and went through the shelves. I found Christmas decorations, hiking and camping equipment, ski equipment, old books, an electronic musical keyboard, some vases, lamps, and other small furniture, and a large locked wooden box. On my keychain I found the key to the padlock. An impressive collection of BDSM equipment lay inside: collars, metal handcuffs, leather cuffs, binders, spreader bars, blindfolds, gags, mouth rings, nipple and labia clamps, chains, ropes, belts, tape, harnesses, two yokes, whips, paddles, candles, and a few things I didn't recognize. I also found the white cattle prod I recognized from Fiona's memories, as well as a smaller black one, a remote controlled dog training shock collar, and a taser. What kind of sick sex was Jet having with a taser?! A smaller plastic box held dildos of various sizes, shapes, and colors. I noticed no but plugs -- Jet must have thrown out the one he used on Fiona.
At least half the items were unopened in their original packaging. There had to be thousands of dollars' worth of BDSM equipment, and most if it was brand new.