tagExhibitionist & VoyeurAn Uprooted Reporter

An Uprooted Reporter


Author's note: This story does not contain any actual sex, although it does have innuendo and the prospect of sex is alluded to often. So if raw sex what the reader is looking for, then perhaps some of my other stories would be a better choice.

Everyone in the story is over 18 years old. Any similarity to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This story should NOT be read by minors or anyone that might be offended by such filth. This story is the property of the author, 49greg and is posted on Literotica .and cannot be copied or used without his permission.

This story is my entry in the 2017 April Fool's contest. I had a rough outline already, but didn't start writing this story until two days before the contest deadline. I am sure there will be excessive typos and other mistakes for that reason.


The gate agent at the MSP airport noticed the woman, wondered if she should call security. The woman was sitting in the waiting area, her hair looked grimy, as if it hadn't been washed recently, her clothes looked as if they had been slept in. The carry on bag and the large purse were well worn, but expensive, once.

Then the flight arrived and she had to go help maneuver the boarding ramp to the plane's door. By the time she got back the first passengers were coming through. The job wasn't bad, but could be busy when someone missed their shift.

She noticed the man come through the boarding ramp. He was tall, his face was tanned, and not from a booth. This man had time and money to spend under the sun. And January in the Twin Cities was not the place for that.

He walked with confidence. His briefcase and carry-on both had the tags indicating the highest level of the frequent flier status. She watched him till he was out of sight. He didn't look for signs, and turned the correct way without hesitation. He must be a regular. Well, she had seen the tags. That said it all.

As she turned her gaze back to the other incoming passengers she noticed the woman, she had left her seat and was just a few steps behind the handsome, tanned man the agent had been watching. She shrugged, maybe she was between flights and just killing time.

Ron saw the woman as he de-planed. He didn't make eye contact, not for her. He'd seen her before. No telling what she was up to now. He kept walking, made the call for the limo, and was assured it would be waiting when he exited the terminal. He pulled on his heavy overcoat and winter hat as he got to the door.

Gwen watched Hauser by-pass the baggage claim and head straight to the door. She knew that about him, he was a seasoned traveler and rarely checked baggage. Not because of the cost, he just didn't want to be bothered.

She caught up to him as he approached the Limo, the driver was by the passenger door and held up the sign marked, "R. Hauser".

"Mr. Hauser, Mr. Ronald D Hauser, a word please," she called, getting his attention.

He turned, he knew she would do this, in front of people, and he knew it was on purpose to attract attention. He didn't want attention, and she knew it, It wasn't the way he liked to play it, and she knew that. The words, 'the bitch', crossed his mind.

He kept his face neutral.


"Sir, I'm a reporter, what can you tell me about Project Gamma," she said, the tiny microphone held out, the wire going back to the digital recorder.

"I'm sorry, I don't know what you're talking about, now if you'll excuse me, I am a busy man," he said, beginning to turn back to the limo.

"Mr. Hauser. Project Gamma, I know you're involved, I must have an interview, if not here, then where?" she called.

He turned back

"How do you know my name, who are you?" he said, his eyes narrowed, his face turning from bland neutrality, to serious, even menacing.

She stepped back, a hint of alarm,

"I'm Gwen Olin. Gwen D. Olin. I'm sure you've heard of me. I don't know what Gamma is, for certain, but I know it's important, and I know you're involved, the press, the people, have a right, there is speculation, rumors, ugly rumors," she said.

He leaned into her, his face menacing, his large manicured hand closed around the microphone.

"I don't know about any Project Gamma, or any other project. I am a lobbyist mostly in the state house here, but for matters that concern my clients I go to Washington. That's it, done finished. I don't know what you're trying to do, but it would be better if you left me alone. Now," he said.

"But sir, I have facts, reports, contacts, I've got pictures of you with important people ...." she stopped as his face turned to thunder.

"Persistence might get you a first hand encounter with Gamma, from the inside, and I don't think you would like that young lady," he hissed.

Her face went white, she didn't expect this side of him. But she was desperate and persisted.

"Sir, I know what your group can do, I've been fired from my last two positions, and now no-one will hire me, my career is in ruins, I have one chance to bring in a story, a real story, I'm next to being homeless, I sold my car to get a flight out her, please sir, please."

"Are you begging me?" he said, his smile not at all pleasant, but gloating.

She gave a slight nod.

"Not good enough. Say it. Out loud," he said.

"Please sir ...."

"No. Beg."

"Sir, please, I'm begging you, please."

There were tears pooling in her eyes, she couldn't look at him, but rather stared at his feet.

If she had looked a little higher she might have seen a hint of arousal.

"A hard boiled reporter, a man, would never stoop so low, I could probably have you on your knees right here, groveling for a story, you're no reporter, just a stupid whore peddling half baked conspiracy theories that don't hold water, plucking names from thin air, get out of my sight."

"But sir."

"No comment," he threw over his shoulder.

The driver holding the door at attention and staring into the distance, having been ignoring the exchange between the two. As the door was closed on him, Gwen heard Hauser tell the driver to take him to his office first, and wait, then home.

Ron sat back in the leather seat and thought about the woman, he imagined her cleaned up, in sexy lingerie, on her knees licking his feet, begging him for attention, a caress, a kiss, a slap. Promising that she would do anything. Anything. He knew that there were lots of 'anything' that she would do. He pictured her bound. Yes, she was made to to be tied up.

He was erect, he felt good, aroused but in control. He liked the feeling. He knew he would see her again, he wondered if she would follow him, or try to intercept him. She didn't have much money on her, no credit cards, he had made sure of that. Perhaps she would be waiting at home.

He thought about calling the police, an anonymous call from a pay phone, tell of a suspicious woman in a rich neighborhood. The thought was titillating, but no, that would draw too much attention. He should see how far she would go, that would be interesting. And arousing.

He was in the office for a short time, he left a flash drive with his notes in the locked drawer in his confidential secretary's desk. Made a few calls, typed a couple of emails to his partners and another to his secretary. Then called her office number. He heard it ring once then go to the after hours message, then the beep.

"Greta, I left a flash drive with the notes from this weeks trip in the locked drawer of your desk. They're strictly confidential, have them typed up in the usual format in time for my one O'Clock meeting on Monday. Also, my key is getting worn, and every time I open that drawer it's harder and harder to turn. Copy me a new one please, first thing. And I know you worry about the cleaning crew, but do you really need to keep your stash of Milky Way bars in there? Maybe you do, I took one. This is Ron, Friday eight thirtyish PM."

He smiled, his peers in the small company joked about his secretary, she spoke perfect English, but occasionally she let a "d" sound replace a "t" sound. He suspected she did it on purpose. He knew she was born in Iowa to a family whose ancestors had been in the original Amana colonies, and the family still spoke German at home.

She was utterly reliable, with a 'Zaftig' body, lush rounded breasts, curving hips and a pneumatic bottom. It went perfectly with her blond hair. She ruled his office staff efficiently with an iron hand and, behind her back, she was referred to as his East German Secretary.

He had fantasies of her in jackboots, leather bra and garter belt, gloves and crop in hand. organizing the other female office staff, all naked of course, perhaps teaching them to please him, mmmm. His fantasy life was active, he needed some sex, he'd been on that business trip for too damn long, and he needed more than his right hand.

As expected, the reporter was waiting for him when he got out of the limo and headed up the walkway to his house.

"Mr. Hauser, I must talk to you, you must grant me an interview," she said as she followed him up the steps to his front door.

"Must? You must? Who are you, what do you thing you know, how important is it for you to know what you THINK is happening," he said, looking in to her eyes.

The low slung limo scraped as is pulled into the street, not even clearly seen, the house was set back, two large spruce trees stood in front of the house, as well as other tall plantings, they were virtually cut off from the neighbors by evergreens, fences and tall plantings.

"This is my last chance, as you know your group, Project Gamma, has made sure I can no longer get a job as a legitimate reporter, I've been living in my car for months, a few fluff pieces under an assumed name is all that's been keeping me going, I'm desperate."

"And what do you think you know?" he asked.

"Project Gamma, my sources ... " she started.

"Sources, what sources," he demanded.

"In the senate building, from a drunk embassy flunky, and at State, from shipping records in New York, New Orleans, Boston, LA, Seattle, Hong Kong, Manila, Riga, Ho Chi Min City, Mumbai."

"My, you have been busy."

"It's not all my work, someone else, Kristin Kirby, you must have heard of her, a reporter from the Washinton Sentinel. She disappeared a year ago, well, I worked in her office for a time, I found a secret compartment under the floorboards, there were records, I took pictures of them with my phone, I've followed up on some of the leads," she said.

"And, with success I suppose."

"Well, mixed, a lot of her sources are, well, silent or missing."

"How convenient."

"No you must listen, you could help, if you broke the news with me, went to the authorities with me, well then any implication of your culpability would be ignored,"

She was shivering, he could tell her winter coat and gloves, obviously purchased in Washington, or near there, probably at a discount store, were not adequate for the Northern tier of states.

"You're calling me a criminal?" he said.

He opened the storm door, put his key in the deadbolt and turned, then in the knob, opening the door.

"It's too cold out here to stand and talk like this," he said, opening the door and taking a step inside.

"Oh god, thank you sir," she said pushing the door further open and stepping in with him.

"I hadn't planned on you coming in,' He said.

"Please sir, please, I beg you sir, please," said, looking at his feet.

He put his forefinger under her chin, lifted her head and looked into her eyes.

"Do you have tickets back to Washington? Or money to buy one?"

"No sir, there's nothing there for me now, all I own is is with me, my purse, my carry on bag here," she says quietly.

"Your car, you said something about that?"

"I sold it to buy a one way ticket."

"Stupid of you, round trip would have cost less," he said.

"Nothing there for me."

"You might as well come in, leave your bags here, give me your recorder," he said.

"No, I must have that."

"That's my condition, take it or leave it," he said.

"All right, I have a good memory."

"I'll bring it along, I'll record those statements I'm willing to let you have."

"Thank you sir," she said.

Soon they were down in his basement office. It was a nice room, no windows, antique oak desk, oak barrister book cases, oak file cabinets, walnut paneling. The hardwood floor was polished, the rugs were obviously hand made,

Navajo and Asian side by side, on the floor, on the walls, along with an old shaker quilt and some maps. The computer desk seemed to be the only modern thing in the room. They sat in the corner, he in a club chair, she on the love seat.

On the way to the basement office he had stopped in the kitchen and prepared a snack plate. She was amazed, the kitchen was modern, but not anything special, a coffee maker using the indivual cups, a top of the line fridge, stove, the usual cabinets etc.

He had pulled out a Tupperware container full of soda crackers, the cheese was domestic 'cheddar' and 'swiss' in pre sliced packages, the plate was a paper picknic plate. She had seen common domestic brands of cereal, canned goods, a few bottles of wine.

Nothing that he couldn't have gotten in any large grocery story in the country. No caviar, no Cuban cigars in the office, or crystal decanters of exotic liquors. It was very middle class American Mid West.

Yet she knew that in Washington he had dined with high rollers, the movers and shakers, in high end restaurants, caviar and Cubans went with the meal and after, the finest gourmet meals at secluded tables surrounded by notable figures often in the news. And he was one of them, she had seen recognition on many faces that also made the news. Yet there was never a mention of him in the news.

There they were snacking on crackers, cheese and grapes, sipping on the coffee he made. They talked about the weather, the difference between Washington and the midwest and anything but what she wanted to. Finally he leaned back.

"Feeling better," he said.

She swallowed blinked, nodded.

"Are you sleepy? Relaxed?"

"I'm tired, just beat, I would have liked more than that snack, but I'm good for now," she said.

"I knew you would be."

"But I'm not so relaxed to not want that story."

"Tell me what you think you have," he said.

"Project Gamma. I've heard things too awful not to be true, I wouldn't hesitate to believe it in some third world dictatorship, but here, it's too horrible."

"Go on, tell me."

"Human trafficking."

"Go on," he said.

"Project Gamma is a program, an organization to kidnap women mostly, and some men, Americans and foreigners. Mostly Americans, to be trained and sold as sex slaves for senators, congressmen and women, foreign dignitaries and heads of state, military and political leaders at the highest levels. Not just in the US but overseas." She leaned back in her seat, lifter he gaze and looked him in the eye.

"Anything else?"

"Oh yes, I know all about you, where you were born, where you went to University, ROTC, Army, your distinguished service to your country, graduate school, your first wife, your divorce, the company you work for, how you rose in the ranks there, now you're a leading partner, everything except what your middle name is. What does the 'D' in Ronald D. Hauser stand for?"

"That's the only thing you don't know? How funny," he said.

"No really, what is it?" she said.

He sighed.

"It's 'Darcy', that's all."

"Hmm, I can think of two Darcy's you might have been named after, one is a good man, the other is a scoundrel," she quipped.

"Oh, my mother was a fan of Miss Austin," he said.

"I think you're a scoundrel though, and it should be for the Darcy thought up by John Coutts,"

Ron smiled, he knew the girl would look wonderful bound by ropes, and was sure that she would be inflamed and extremely turned on by that. He stared at her for some time, then changed the subject.

"You're very trusting," he said.


"I might have drugged you, if it's true that statement about Gamma might be a death sentence, or worse," he said.

"Are you going to kill me?"

"No, if I was in such a business, I'd be in acquisitions, not in disposals, clean up, or recycling."

She took a deep breath, as if she was relieved that her search had proved true. That even if she was going to be killed, silenced or whatever, at least it wasn't some huge cosmic joke.

"Have I been drugged?"

"Yes, but not to kill you, just to make you more pliable, more open to suggestion."

"Why not kill me?"

"I probably should, you might have gotten everything right, and even if you don't have it right, it wouldn't do my or my company any good to have it under scrutiny by the press or any meddling congressman. Did you know that in many ways the Senate sees Congress as more of an enemy than the opposing party? They hate investigative congressmen."

"So what are you going to do with me?"

"I need to know everything, everybody you've told this wild story to." he said.

"I've told you where I got the info, in the hidden space under the floorboards," she said.

"And where are the papers?"

"In my bag,"

"And who did you contact about this?"

"I tried to tell several papers, magazines, and news shows, I just said I had an explosive expose, nothing more than that. No one, absolutely no one, would let me go further. Some wouldn't even talk to me, some just said to shut up and get out, that I was poison and unreliable."

"Must have been tough on you," he said.

"Yes, damn you."

"Aren't you forgetting a certain dispatcher at a certain shipping company in the Baltimore docks?"

She let out a big sigh.

"Yeah, you know everything, what ask me?"

"Just dotting the Is and crossing the Ts."

"You know very well that he didn't say anything, just told me to meet him at some dive gay bar the next night. And you must know he didn't show." she said.

"I understand that another department handled him, I think it was re-cycling, but maybe disposals."

"You mentioned recycling, what is that."

"It's what it sounds like, just like glass bottles, you melt them down, then you re-form them into the shape you want them. It's not always successful, but there's always disposals," he said.

"That's horrible," she said.

"You were married before weren't you, tell me about that?" he said as he handed her a glass of wine.

She gulped it down and he poured another. She started sipping from it.

"Do we have to go over that, why do you want to hear that, it's private," she said.

"You've never told me, how was the sex, was he big, small, did he satisfy you? What did you do, what did he do, what did he like, what did tell him he liked. What kind of sex since them, other lovers, other men, what really turns you on, how often have you, did you, fake orgasm, I need it all."

"I suppose you're recording this?" she said.

"Every word."

"Why, what does this have to do with Project Gamma?"

"I may have to pass you on, I am in acquisitions, the more I tell the indoctrination people ahead of time, the easier for you, they don't fool around getting secrets, it's not as pleasant, believe me, giving me that info now is much better than later," he said.

"My first husband, he was a rat. Oh not at first, but later. After the first month he didn't want to go down on me. After the third month he wouldn't let me on top. And he was just a little too quick. I think he liked getting himself off and making me work it out on my own. He loved to watch me Jill myself."

"I think any man would," he said.

"You men. Well he was shooting blanks, said he didn't want kids, got himself fixed before we married. Didn't tell me until after we were married. Bastard. Wouldn't let me clean up, wanted to watch his goo slide out as I masturbated. I didn't want to sleep in that wet spot, but I did every time. Wouldn't even let me put a towel down before hand."

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