J the Sleuth Ch. 01: The Genesis

Jacqueline -- Jacky to acquaintances, J to her friends -- was doing her best not to breathe too heavily. A bead of sweat rolled down between her heaving breasts, and her normally straight, silky hair was plastered against the side of her head.

Her eyes were glued to the man below her -- the British Minister of State for Employment -- but his own eyes were closed, focusing on his approaching orgasm. He was lying back and being ridden, hard, so it wouldn't be long before he'd explode into his condom.

J, however, wasn't the one riding him. The escort she'd hired for the job was earning her pay, and probably deserved a good tip on top of it. She'd been hired for her looks, but she had skills, too. J was in the apartment above, taking photos of the copulating couple through a hidden hole in the floor/ceiling. She wished it wasn't so goddam hot up here, but she didn't want to turn on the A/C for fear of ruining the sound from the video cameras she'd set up.

She wasn't a lesbian, but even so she found herself admiring the sight of the girl riding the Minister cowgirl style: her back was arched, breasts pointed toward the ceiling, eyes closed. She was an absolute vision. The Minister -- who was now moaning as he came -- would never want the videos or photos released, but anyone else who got hold of them would very much enjoy watching this.

J let him enjoy his afterglow, but the moment he got up to start his post-coital clean-up routine she stopped recording and got up to go downstairs. She was about to go out the door but she paused by a mirror to try and fix her looks first. The heat and humidity hadn't done much for her hair, and her top was sticking to her chest more than normal, but she did what she could to make herself presentable. She was embarrassed (and amused) to realize she was worried about what the escort might think, but dammit, the girl was fucking sexy; anyone would want to impress her.

She went downstairs and let herself into the room using her own key. The girl was already dressed, and since the Minister was out of sight there was no longer any pretence required, and she looked bored. The job was done, so she just wanted to finish the transaction and get out of here.

She did smile at J when she entered the room, though. Fucking the Minister may not have been anything special, but the idea of doing further work for J was definitely pleasing to her. J paid very well, demanding nothing in return other than silence.

"Good work," J said to her, with a bit of extra meaning imparted through a look.

"A pleasure," the girl responded, taking the envelope from J. "Gimme a ring, next time you need me!"

She left -- J did what she could to resist staring at her ass as she sashayed out -- and when the Minister came back out of the bathroom, looking much more put together, he found J sitting in an armchair waiting for him, instead of the call girl.

"What the..." he spluttered, "Who the deuce are you?"

"Doesn't matter," she responded. "What matters is that you just committed adultery, that I have it on film, and that you don't want your wife Olivia -- let alone your mistress, Lily! -- finding out about any of this. Now, if we put all of those facts together, what does it add up to?"

He sat down heavily. "Bloody hell," he muttered.

"By the way," J asked, "'Olivia' and 'Lily'? What, do you pick your lovers based on their names?"

"Just... What do you want?" he asked; he wasn't feeling playful. Oh well. "You're a Yank, aren't you?"

"Simple," J responded, without bothering to correct him on her nationality. "You'll be submitting a bill to Parliament later this month. You're going to let me edit it first, and then, when shopping it around to your colleagues, you're going to fight for those edits."

"Fine," he said resignedly. "Did you really have to go through all of this, though?"

"Trust me, this was the easy way. You wouldn't have wanted the hard way."

"And when do I get the copies of the video? And how do I know you'll destroy the originals?"

She actually laughed. "I won't destroy it!" she responded. "The video is mine. Whenever I want something, for the rest of your life, I'm going to call you up, and you're gonna do whatever I fucking ask. If I tell you to do anything, ever, and you don't respond immediately with the phrase "yes ma'am," Lily and Olivia will get copies of the video about 30 seconds before The Mirror does. Is that more clear?"

"Yes," he said, meekly. He knew when he was beaten.

---

Within an hour she was back at Heathrow, in the first class lounge, waiting for her flight back to Toronto. She couldn't decide if she should be amused or annoyed at how easily the Minister had given in to her demands. She almost wished there had been more of a fight; she detested weakness in men.

She called The Boss.

"Yes?" he answered.

"It's done."

"Problems?"

"None."

"How long, d'you think?" -- meaning: how long would they be able to keep the Minister under their control?

"Six months, tops. He's not careful; he was petrified at the thought of me sending the video to his wife or his mistress, but I'm betting they'll both find out soon enough without any help from us, through his own stupidity. From what I've heard about this Lily woman, he might even end up castrated in the process."

"Six months is enough," he responded, before clicking off. Phone etiquette wasn't high on their priorities, he had other things he could have been using those two seconds for.

She took a sip of her white wine, and nestled further back into her plush chair. In a moment she'd go change into a comfortable skirt for the flight, but she needed a respite first. She'd been on the go since she'd gotten off the plane this morning: arranging for the room, finding the perfect escort, getting the video equipment in place, and handling a million other details had kept her going, thinking and moving constantly. This was the first time since 9AM London time that she didn't have an immediate task in front of her, she was just waiting for her departure.

---

On the flight home, J took the opportunity to think back on her career as an agent. A "spy," some would say, though it wasn't as glamorous as people might assume. She rarely went outside the borders of Canada, and, given the quasi-legal status of the Agency, felt it was better to downplay her line of work, rather than glamorize it. Some of the older agents had taken to calling the Agency "The Shop," in a reference she didn't get (she thought it might be Stephen King), and the way they said it made it pretty clear that it wasn't a complimentary reference.

She'd been recruited right out of university, in a story that could have come from a John le Carré novel: she'd been smart and good with languages -- not to mention good with computers, which was a large part of modern intelligence work -- and, although nobody ever said so straight out, she got the impression that her looks were also part of the informal evaluation criteria. If she was ever put in a position where she had to seduce a target (it was called a "honeypot" operation, though it hadn't happened yet), she wouldn't have any problems. Most men wanted her in their bed.

The idea of seducing a target amused her. More like James Bond than John le Carré, except the genders were reversed. She had a sexual appetite to match Bond's, and, like him, she knew that members of the opposite sex found her irresistible: statuesque; long, straight, dark hair; C-cup boobs that provided generous cleavage when needed, but stayed out of the way when she wanted to be inconspicuous. And, like James Bond, she knew what she was doing in the bedroom. No man had ever left her bed unsatisfied. Rather the opposite; a few had lost her respect when they came back begging for more. Weakness!

Unlike 007, though, her job was usually boring. (Maybe his was, too, in between movies?) She spent more time writing reports than she ever did outside of the office. The closest she'd come to anything physical was... well, it was watching the Minister fuck an escort this afternoon.

That being said, it did give her a feeling of control to have his life in her hands.

She took a sip of her wine, and smiled to herself. Because that Minister had been thinking with his dick, she could now make him do anything she wanted him to do. Sure, it wasn't actually her who'd be making him to anything, it was the Agency, but for the moment she had the data in her bag, so she was the one who was in control. And the idea of being in control really was a turn-on for her; she was so rarely in control of her own life: she did what she was told, when she was told, and that was that.

She must have been smiling to herself a bit too much, because the man in the first class seat next to her was eyeing her. She looked over at him, and raised an eyebrow quizzically.

"Something funny?" he asked, obviously hoping to start a conversation with this hot brunette.

"Oh... just thinking about men," she responded with a chuckle. "And how easy they are to manipulate."

"True enough!" he responded good-naturedly. "It's not hard to get us to do what you want. Out of curiosity, though, what's your style when it comes to manipulating us?"

"Well," she responded, "I like to take a very direct approach." It was an overnight flight, so the lights were down, and the man had a blanket over his waist; she slid an arm under it and rested a hand on his thigh, secure in the knowledge that nobody would notice anything. She also lowered her voice, letting it go husky, knowing that it would cause her words to completely bypass his brain and go straight to his cock.

"Men say they like a woman who gets right to the point," she continued, "but they're put off when it actually happens." As she was talking, she was deftly undoing his pants and freeing his cock from his boxers. "When a woman just goes for it, they get a bit nervous -- and then they simply go along with it. It's almost like hypnosis." She was now stroking his cock under the blanket. So gently, so sensuously -- but not tentatively. "They're not sure what they're supposed to do, they're too used to being the instigators, so they just... let me do what I want!"

She kept talking to him, in her husky voice, until she could see his eyes start to glaze over, and knew that he was getting close. And then he got slightly worried -- as worried as a man can get while his cock is being worked by an expert -- as it dawned on him that he was in public, in an airplane, fully clothed, and about to ejaculate.

"I'm going to--" he started to say, but she interrupted him.

"I know," she responded, and then leaned over his lap, put her head under the blanket, and took his cock between her lips. As usual, she'd timed things just right, such that she got him in her mouth just in time for the eruption, which she sucked down greedily.

When she was sure he was done, she sat back up, and, with the hand still under the blanket, put his cock back inside his pants, without having made a mess. She then put her seat back as far as it would go, took a sip of her wine, and looked back over at him one final time.

"Goodnight," she murmured, and then laid back and closed her eyes, to sleep for the rest of the flight.

Nothing like a belly full of cum to make a girl sleepy, she thought to herself, as she drifted off.

---

Arriving at Pearson airport from London was always disorienting because of the time zone difference: A 7 hour flight that landed only 2 hours after takeoff. The good news was that she had the night to herself; the bad news was that her body felt like it was time to sleep immediately.

There was the usual rush of people wanting to deplane, but she wasn't in a hurry. Nowhere to go but home, and nothing to do but to fall asleep in front of Netflix.

Her seatmate graciously let her get out first -- such a gentleman! -- and then she was joining the throng of others heading out of the terminal. Fortunately, her only luggage was the bag over her shoulder, so she wouldn't have to waste time sitting by the luggage carousel, she could just go straight out and flag a cab.

As she walked, she suddenly felt a hand on her elbow, guiding her toward the men's room. Her whole body tensed, as her training kicked in: she wouldn't take him out here, but as soon as they were inside the men's room she would thrust an elbow into his throat, and... but then she realized that it was her seatmate from the flight who was guiding her, and relaxed.

"You only whet my appetite," he said quietly into her ear, and the next thing she knew they were in the men's room -- miraculously empty, at this time, but she didn't count on it staying that way -- and right into one of the stalls, which he closed behind them.

She'd changed into a skirt for the flight, and he took immediate advantage of that fact. He pushed her forward, bending her over the toilet with her hands planted on the wall behind it, and then pulled her skirt up over her waist. He didn't even bother pulling her panties down, just pulled them to the side, and the next thing she knew he was inside her.

"Ugh," she gasped, as she felt the cock invade her pussy, and then she simply took him. She needed this; it had been too long -- almost two days since she'd fucked anyone!

He wasn't going for finesse, he was simply craving release. He wanted to fuck his cum into her, and that was it -- this wasn't making love, or sex, it was animal passion. Exactly what she wanted.

When she felt his movements start to change, and knew he was about to cum, she reached down with one hand to work her clit. She managed to cum at the same time she felt his cock spasm inside her, and they both grunted as they came, trying not to be too loud, but not caring as much as they should have as their passions overrode their better judgement.

Once she felt his cock starting to soften, and their breathing had returned to normal, she pulled off of him and rearranged her panties. She turned around to face him, and kissed his lips.

"Going anywhere special?" she asked him.

"Just home to the wife," he responded candidly, "but she's used to long delays on this flight, so has no idea when to expect me."

"Then let's take advantage of that," she said. "My place isn't far from here."

They caught a cab, and were at her apartment not long after. Finally, they could get their clothes off, use a bed, and do things properly.

And, for the next couple of hours, they did.

---

The next morning, when her alarm went off, she rolled out of bed, still naked, and padded into the kitchen in search of coffee. Catherine, her maid, had already set up the coffee maker, so all J had to do was press the button and it would grind the beans and start brewing.

Maids weren't exactly common in this day and age, pretty much an anachronism, but J had realized early on that the Agency kept her much too busy to have time left over for keeping her apartment neat, or buying groceries, or -- heaven forbid! -- cleaning toilets, so she'd gone with one of those cleaning services. Then, when Catherine started working for her and proved her usefulness, J decided to poach her from the service and hire her full time. She'd actually become something more akin to a personal assistant than a maid. J's own "girl Friday" -- another old fashioned term. Catherine had a special knack for never being in the way (so J always had the apartment to herself), and yet always sensing in advance when J was going to need something.

Her seatmate from the night before had left around 2AM, no doubt mentally drafting the story he'd tell his wife about the delay to the flight. For his sake, J hoped he'd keep it simple. One thing she'd learned about lying was that trying to embellish too much simply called attention to the lie. Telling his wife that the flight had been delayed and leaving it at that was his best course of action. But she figured he already knew that, he seemed like the type for whom one-nighters were a common occurrence. Just J's type. He'd already showered before leaving, so that he wouldn't go home to his wife with J's juices all over him.

She drank half of her coffee in the kitchen, and then went back into the bedroom to peel the sheets off the bed and throw them in the hamper for Catherine to deal with. It was another of their rituals: when J spent a night of passion in her bed, she always put the sheets into the hamper the next day, so that Catherine would know that they needed to be changed. Last night had been a perfect example: they'd gone round after round, and there was probably semen everywhere on those sheets. When J was with a man, and really got going, she liked to try new things, and that sometimes involved a mess. Her own juices would be all over the place, too; she'd thoroughly enjoyed herself over those couple of hours.

Her one and only chore complete, she headed in for a hot shower. She came out of the bathroom feeling refreshed and energized. She put on a severe pencil skirt, white blouse, and matching jacket, finished off the outfit with some minimalist earrings and a necklace, and then went out to the kitchen to pour the rest of the coffee from the carafe into a travel mug. Finally, she put on some mid-height heels, before heading down to the garage for the drive in to the office.

When she arrived, she headed straight for The Boss' office, so that she could deliver the USB drive containing the videos and photos of the Minister in action. (Not to mention that hot, sexy escort. She hoped The Boss would enjoy watching her in action!)

J didn't fraternize much with her coworkers. Given the line of work they were in -- the fact that they basically lied for a living -- she wasn't planning to get too cozy with anyone from the Agency. Who wanted a relationship in which everyone was constantly doubting everything the other said? Better to have civilians for friends. J still lied to those friends constantly, but they didn't know that, and she didn't have to suspect them of constantly lying either.

The door was closed, so she knocked. "Come," he responded, so she went in, closing the door behind her. He had his head down, looking at some paperwork, which was the way she usually found him upon entering his office. She came up and dropped the USB drive onto the desk, then circled around to his side. She pushed his chair back, to give herself, more room, got down in front of him, and freed his cock to start blowing him under the table.

---

The Boss -- his real name was Kevin, but it was a turn-on to continue thinking of him as "The Boss" -- had been the one to recruit her in university. (Her first nickname for him had been The Professor, since he was the professor of her English Studies course in her final year.) They'd been fucking behind his wife's back for a couple of months when, one sunny afternoon, as they lay naked in the twisted sheets of her bed, he'd told her that his professorship was just a cover. He'd then told her about his real job, running a clandestine agency that performed certain tasks, on behalf of clients who preferred not to have their actions (let alone their motivations) be known by actual, law-abiding entities. She'd been intrigued.

As he'd continued to tell her about it, she'd rolled over onto him, impaled herself on his cock cowgirl style, and slowly ridden, him while he explained the potential role she could play for him at the Agency.

She didn't realize it until later, but this leisurely fuck in the mid-afternoon sunshine, negotiating a job with The Professor while simultaneously riding his cock, had been part of the interview process, whereby she proved that his suspicions about her abilities were correct: the fact that she could expertly pleasure him (along with herself), while never losing the thread of the conversation, showed that she had what it took to be an Agent. Not many people -- male or female -- could follow the conversation down a tangent about the morality of illegality, only to come back to the main topic to discuss salaries, all while working her clit with one hand, and his nipple with the other (she knew what he liked). She had even managed to delay their orgasms until terms had been decided, at which point she'd closed her eyes, focused on their bodies, and fucked his cock until it shot a load into her waiting cunt.