Spy Games Ch. 17

This chapter of Spy Games coincides with some of the events in chapter six of Realtor Revenge.

Spy Games

Chapter 17

Miss Hardwood and I bought twenty-five houses in the next three days, far exceeding my "six house a day" goal. To speed things up, I limited the number of women I pleasured, trying to choose only those female homeowners who appeared to urgently need an orgasm or three to keep their morale up.

I also pared down the number of men who got to enjoy Miss Hardwood's charms to no more than four a day. Learning my lesson from our experience with Mr. Winger, I constrained her personal services to those men I thought could last the entire thirty minutes. I also increased the cost with each prospective stud and was shocked to learn that she would fetch over fifteen thousand per session. Apparently, the men of Merryville were more desperate for sex than they were for money.

All in all, I thought things were going well. We were on schedule to buy the requisite number of houses, the Ball Busting Bitch hadn't sent me a threatening text in over forty-eight hours, and it looked like our foreign clients... the potential terrorists... had selected Merryville as their intended headquarters. So, when I drug my tired ass back to our secluded four-bedroom base of operations that third night, I was surprised that my compatriots didn't agree with my optimistic assessment of the situation.

"We're bored out of our gourds," Flanagan told me as we sipped whiskey on the front porch after dinner. "Ever since you took Raven off my hands, I've got nothing to do but drive around in my cop car and pretend I know what the fuck I'm doing. And you've got Janis on house arrest. The girl's got the worst case of cabin fever I've ever see... and that includes the guy we rescued from that dungeon in Malaysia."

"How about Sixty-nine?" I asked. "With all the houses I'm buying she's got to have enough financial paperwork to keep her busy."

"Yeah, she's busy enough, but she's not happy. I can't put my finger on it, but the eager helper we were getting used to is digressing back into a whiny college kid. It's like her best friend moved away and she's pouting."

"You got any ideas?" I asked.

"Nothing specific. All Janis and I need is something constructive to do. I know you're busy so give me a day or two and I'll come up with something. But I'm going to need some help with Sixty-nine. I don't know why she started acting like a human being a couple of weeks ago and I sure can't figure out what turned her back into the millennial from hell. Why don't you talk to her? You're supposedly the expert on all things female. Figure out what she wants and give it to her."

I took another sip of Jack and swirled it around my mouth, letting the smooth liquor please my palate before it befuddled my brain.

I wasn't worried about Flanagan. He was a sniper at heart. He could lay perfectly still on a frozen hillside for hours at a time, mentally designing some new way to spy on people while waiting for a terrorist to show his ugly face. If I trusted anybody with Miss Moorehead's fragile mental state, it was Flanagan. I knew that, when the two of them put their minds together, they would find something productive to do with their overabundance of free time. I'd just have to remind him that her body was off limits.

Sixty-nine -- on the other hand -- was an entirely different story. I'd only known her for a couple of weeks. Sure, I thought I had her figured out...

And then it occurred to me. Ever since Miss Moorehead moved in with us, I had completely ignored my young assistant. It had been nearly a week since I'd smacked Sixty-nine on the ass, pinched her nipples or shoved something long and stiff up her pussy. Knowing that I could no longer be the man that sexually satisfied our masochistically inclined intern, I realized it was time to delegate those duties to my partner.

"Fuck, I'm an idiot," I said.

"Yeah, I've been saying that for years," Flanagan replied. "You care to tell me why you finally agree with me."

"You need something to do and Sixty-nine needs an attitude adjustment. That's the solution."

Flanagan gave me his patented cockeyed head tilt, indicating he had absolutely no idea what I was talking about.

"Starting tomorrow," I continued, "you're going to teach Sixty-nine how to shoot. Pistols, rifles, shotguns... whatever we got on hand. Start with the basics and work up from there. Explain that marksmanship is one of the skills required of a field agent."

"That's your solution? Teach her how to kill people and she'll instantly become a happy employee."

"Knowing how to handle a gun will make her feel more like part of the team. But there's one more thing I want you to do. While you're teaching her, if she ever says the words 'I'm sorry,' I want you to stop whatever you've been doing, pull her pants down and spank her bare butt until it turns red."

"So now you want me to give a loaded weapon to a clinically depressed female and then smack her on the ass whenever she says the magic word. Is this a trick Mrs. Bancroft taught you or did you make this one up all by yourself?"

"Trust me. Give it a couple of days. If she doesn't start singing during breakfast after the third day, we'll go to plan B."

"What's plan B? Hand grenades and a whipping post?"

***

Two mornings later, I went for a run in the woods behind our rental house. A couple of miles into it, I heard the distinct retort of a.50 caliber sniper rifle. Thinking it was Flanagan honing his marksmanship skills, I decided to work on my woodsman-ship talents. Or, in other words, I was going to see how close I could get to my partner before he heard, smelled, or otherwise sensed my presence.

This was really his area of expertise. Even as kids, Flanagan had an innate ability to sneak up on people that I could never match. I attributed it to the hours he spent hunting deer and other game in the wilds of Montana, and his Army sniper training certainly added to his repertoire of stalking techniques. But, on that morning, I took on the role of the tracker.

Since he was firing a small cannon every couple of minutes, locating him didn't take any Daniel Boone like abilities. I simply followed the sounds and was soon fifty yards behind two naked people on a camouflaged blanket. Sixty-nine was prone with a gun to her right shoulder. Flanagan, squatting just to her side, adjusted her shooting position slightly and then gave her a soft rap on the ass. She took in two deep breaths, released half the air of the second breath and slowly squeezed the trigger.

A man shaped cardboard target, about a hundred yards downrange, wobbled as the large caliber bullet pierced what would have been the enemy's shoulder.

"High and right," Flanagan said as he gave her ass a more pronounced smack. "Try it again."

Sixty-nine rolled onto her side and accepted another bullet from her instructor. I couldn't help but admire how her C-cup breasts bounced as she ejected the spent round and chambered the new one.

Back into the prone shooting position -- belly and boobs flat on the blanket, legs spread in a V, toes pointing out, elbows on the ground, right hand on the grip, left supporting the barrel, right face cheek pressed against the stock -- Sixty-nine lined up another shot but waited for permission to fire.

Flanagan moved behind her and, grasping her upper right thigh, he slowly moved his hands down her leg, spreading them wider ever so slightly in the process.

"You need to relax your lower body," he said while repeating the process on the other leg. "Any tension in your legs will flow up your body and transfer to your grip." He continued to stroke the insides of her thighs and then moved his hands to the apex of the V. "Shooting is a lot like sex. Slow it down, use every part of your body and you will never be disappointed with the results."

The temptation to yell "Bull Shit" was hard to suppress, but I remained hidden and silent to see where this was going.

Flanagan played with Sixty-nine's outer pussy lips while spouting out more "Zen marksmanship" malarky and then moved two fingers into what must have been a moist opening.

"Now we're getting somewhere," he said. "There's nothing like a hard dick or wet pussy to improve your aim."

He gave her two or three more strokes, pulled his fingers out of her snatch, patted her ass, and said "FIRE".

I'll be a son-of-a-bitch if that round didn't cut straight through the paper target's heart.

The next three shots all went through the same hole. Each preceded by ever increasing periods of ass spanking and finger play. By the time they transitioned from target practice to good old-fashioned fucking, Sixty-nine's ass was a bright shade of red, her pussy was so wet I could smell her from my voyeur's hiding spot and, amazingly, the paper target was completely demolished. Despite everything being done to her body, Sixty-nine didn't miss the target once. Maybe there was more to Flanagan's Kama Sutra style of marksmanship training than met the eye.

I waited until the giggling, grunting and moaning was loud enough to mask my retreat and stealthily made my way back to the house.

***

The first three nights after I rescued her from the coffin, Miss Moorehead started the evening in her assigned bedroom but, unable to fall asleep on her own, transitioned to my bed sometime after midnight. The ground rules remained the same. Cuddling but no sex. That fourth night, she was already in my bed when I called it quits for the day.

"I hope you don't mind," she said. "I figured we would both sleep better if I started here."

"Good plan. Those 1:00 am wakeups were starting to get to me. Give me a couple of minutes and I'll join you. We need to have a little discussion and I'd much rather do it when we're both fully awake.

I quickly performed my pre-bed ritual -- brush teeth, pee and strip down to my boxers -- then slipped between the sheets next to my newest roommate. Just like the previous three nights, she was wearing a full length, buttoned to the neck night gown that had to be hotter than hell... especially with my arms around her all night. I took her overly conservative sleepwear as a sign that she really was interested in a good night's sleep and not the other popular purpose for a bed.

"I know what you want to talk about," she said as I turned off the bedside lamp. The nearly full moon shining through an uncovered window illuminated the spot where her pretty blonde head rested on my spare pillow.

"Really? Are you clairvoyant or am I so transparent any mortal can read my mind?"

"It doesn't take psychic abilities to see or feel the anaconda lying between us. You think I'm taking advantage of you."

"Okay. But before you continue, would you mind if I tape this conversation and play it back for my boss? Every time I see her, she accuses me of taking advantage of some poor defenseless maiden. You taking advantage of me would be a first."

"Am I also the first woman to sleep with you without first removing her night gown?"

"Yes," I answered after a quick search of my memory banks. "But that's not what I wanted to discuss."

"You're not mad at me for climbing into your bed every night, forcing you to hold me but not getting anything in return?"

"There is no other place I'd rather you spend the night than in my arms. You can't imagine the peace having you close brings me."

"Nice words Mr. Seiman, but I know bullshit when I hear it. A man like you isn't looking for inner peace. All you want is a piece of ass. From what I've seen these last few weeks, you're not overly particular about whose ass it is. The only reason you haven't kicked me out of your bed is you're worried I'll go all psycho on you. Afraid I'll run down Main Street, wearing nothing but my sneakers, yelling "the terrorists are coming, the terrorists are coming."

I remained silent for several seconds. Watching her beat back the tears... waiting to see if she had anything else to get off her flannel covered chest.

"Are you done?" I asked, wanting to give her every chance to vent.

She took a deep breath. "I think so... but I reserve the right to blow up like a spoiled child for as long as you keep me cooped up without access to the real world.

"So," she continued, "if you weren't going to complain about our lack of nocturnal athletics, what did you want to talk about?"

"I wanted to ask for a favor. It has to do with Flanagan. He's bored. It's been almost a week since he's killed somebody, blown something up or taken advantage of a defenseless woman. And when Flanagan gets bored, bad things happen."

"Hopefully you're not suggesting I let him molest me. He's already checked that block."

"Absolutely not. What I've got in mind is a little psychological warfare."

"Directed at who?"

"Raven Hardwood. You and Flanagan are going to convince her that she's on the brink of insanity."

"Is this an integral part of your plan to defeat the terrorists?"

"No. I'm sure we can accomplish the mission without messing with Miss Hardwood's mental health. But Flanagan needs a temporary hobby and Raven certainly deserves a good mind fucking."

"... and you think giving me something to do will take my mind off whatever is making me get all emotional about nothing," she said with a knowing look.

"Sweet dreams Miss Moorehead. I look forward to hearing what you and Flanagan come up with."

***

Do You Believe in Ghosts?

The next day went well. I bought six houses, brought two southern belles to life altering sexual climaxes and traded Miss Hardwood's body to four eager male homeowners for an average discount of ten thousand a poke. It was 5:30 in the afternoon when we left the last house. After Miss Hardwood dropped me at my car, I drove a circuitous route home (standard field agent procedure... never take the same route to or from home). It was a few minutes past six when I pulled in front of our hideaway in the woods.

"What do you know about ghosts?" Miss Moorehead asked me as I walked in the front door. She and Sixty-nine were in their designated spots on the couch, well into a bottle of Chablis. Flanagan had his usual buddies -- Bud and Jack -- sitting on a small table next to his chair.

"Really? I slave all day at the office just to put food on the table and the first thing you ask when I walk in the door is about ghosts? How about 'hi honey, how was your day?' Or even a simple 'I'm glad you're home.'"

"I am so sorry," Miss Moorehead answered. "It's just that the kids have been a royal pain in the ass all day long. I'm doing everything I can to keep them from killing each other but now that you're home, I know everything will be peachy."

She put her hands on either side of her wide opened mouth, opened her eyes as far as she possible could and held the pose for several seconds before all four of us broke out in laughter.

"I'm getting another beer," Flanagan said as he rose from his chair.

Sixty-nine took the briefcase full of contracts out of my hand and might have given me a wink before she headed towards her computer.

When the two of them had left the room, I walked over to Miss Moorehead and kissed her on the forehead.

"Ghosts?" I asked.

"Yeah. Ghosts. We're going to make Raven think I've come back from the dead to haunt her."

"Not a bad strategy," I said after considering the idea. "What's the plan?"

"We'll tell you after you grill the steaks."

"Can't you tell me now and let Flanagan cook the steaks?"

"He says you're better at it than him."

"He's been using that excuse to not cook for the last fifteen years. Would you mind making the salad?"

"Already done. I'll bring you a beer and we'll talk ghosts over dinner."

I understood my marching orders and was just about to leave when she grabbed my arm and kissed me on the lips.

"Just so there's no doubt. I am glad you're home."

I grilled the T-bones to a perfect 145 degrees, picked out a bottle of whisky-barrel-aged cabernet and joined the others who were already seated at the dinner table.

Sixty-nine gave us a quick financial report...

"The Ball Busting Bitch thinks we're spending too much for houses in a dying town. If you don't sell them at a profit, your ass is grass."

Flanagan complained about the local constabulary...

"This has to be the worst group of cops in the country. Half are on the take and the other half are incompetent. If I ever decide to pursue a life of crime, I'm moving to Merryville."

After we discussed my shortcomings in real estate bargaining and the sorry state of Merryville's law enforcement team, we finally broach the topic of fucking with Raven Hardwood's brain.

"Since I've never seen a ghost, my knowledge is limited to what I've read in Stephen King novels and assorted haunting movies," I said when asked about my expertise. "But I'm betting that's the extent of Miss Hardwood's spectral experiences as well."

"That's what we're counting on," Miss Moorehead said. "So, here's what we're thinking. We start with her house..."

***

The "drive Raven mad" campaign began the next day. While I was offering Miss Hardwood's body to the local male populace in exchange for a better price on their homes, Flanagan and Sixty-nine broke into her house and made a few modifications.

First came the cameras. At least one in every room, to include three in the master bedroom and two in the master bath... expertly positioned so they had a good view of the shower and mirror. I thought it a bit of overkill but didn't complain because installing them was good practice for Sixty-nine.

Hiding the bedroom speakers was more of a chore. To make sure they wouldn't be discovered, they cut the carpet under Miss Hardwood's bed, drilled a four-inch hole into the concrete slab, installed the speaker, receiver, power cord and signal wires, patched the hole and sewed up the rug. Just to be thorough, they did the same thing with the two upstairs bedrooms.

With all the gadgets in place, the four of us spent that first night watching the Raven Hardwood reality show. I made popcorn, Flanagan poured adult beverages and then the four of us settled into our assigned living room seats -- the girls on the couch, Flanagan and I in our easy chairs. I didn't understand the tech, but Flanagan and Sixty-nine somehow transferred the live hidden camera video and audio from Miss Hardwood's home to our sixty-inch TV.

Using their smart phones as controllers, they followed Miss Hardwood from room to room as she went through her evening routine. With the possible exception of the shower, it was a boring show. Even the shower scene would have gotten old fairly quickly if Raven hadn't broken out with a fractured version of "I'm gonna wash that man right out of my hair". Just like watching a low scoring football game, we entertained ourselves by going over our day's events and making the occasional sly comment about Raven's slightly OCD pre-bed ritual.

The pregame show ended at 9:45 when Miss Hardwood turned out the lights and climbed into bed. Even though the high-definition color picture quickly degraded as the camera changed into its night mode, the clarity was sufficient for our needs. We could see her shape in the bed and, when we turned the volume up, could hear her breath.

"Does she always go to bed this early?" Miss Moorehead asked me.

"You're asking the wrong guy. I've never spent the night with her. Why don't you ask someone who has?"

All eyes turned to Flanagan.

"Can't say for sure. I've had a couple of sleepovers with Raven and, while we might have gone to bed early, we didn't get to sleep until well after midnight. But she does have this annoying habit of getting up at the butt-crack of dawn to go running... and considering what Mark's been putting her through, I imagine she needs more shuteye than the average girl."