Sitting in the bar with a man I barely knew who just told me that HE knew I often didn’t wear anything under my clothing when I went out was a bit disconcerting. Having also just been handed a notorious memory of my past on a very icy plate, I do believe that I had broken out in a cold sweat before turning to the guy named Ben. “I had all but forgotten that strange incident”.
“Really? Well Dagger didn’t forget about you. He kept that incident in his mind after hearing all the sordid details from “Doris”, and frankly it solidified his standing with the Popes of Hell to allow him better access to the club’s drug dealing enterprises. In the end, they convicted 9 people in the drug ring for importing over 22 tons of cocaine and the sale of massive quantities of ecstasy and methamphetamine all over the Eastern Seaboard.
You see Stansfield - Dagger that is - was an inside man. He came from working class parents, but his grandfather worked for the government many years in the intelligence field, and with his interesting linage was the perfect choice to infiltrate the Pope’s.
Right under our noses too, there between the Seal base and NAS Oceana. Real clever”.
Reeling, I just had to ask, “So, what became of Doris”?
Ben blushed just a bit before he answered, so I was assured that the whole story not only had gotten to the guys, but all around the 'company' as well. “Uh, yeah. ‘Doris’ was originally born ‘Morris’ and she/he ended up hitting on the wrong guy, who ironically, sliced her throat clean across after first castrating her. You can guess at where the famous member ended up being placed..”
I gulped hard.
Ben glanced down at his shoes momentarily before returning to look me in the eyes. “Yup, that was just one of 3 murder convictions they got on the Pope’s as well. Bad boys those guys, bad boys”.
“And Dagger, er, ‘Paul’?”, I asked.
His gaze bearing down on me, Ben looked at me with steely eyes before continuing. “He’s in a program, so I’m not allowed to tell you any more about him other than his name has changed and he lives in a medium sized town; somewhere that he can blend in”.
Boy, would that be hard I thought.
“He cut all his hair off and had plastic surgery too, seeing as he has a price on his head from just about every hardcore biker gang in America. Actually, it’s the program I’m here to ask you about.”
Still thinking about Dagger/Paul and musing with a sense of sexual delight and revulsion about Doris/Morris, I asked Ben about the anachronism that he had just used.
“Oh, that’s short for (redacted) said Ben.
I wondered at that point if I had seen or met someone in my other sexual exploits that I was now going to pay for, or perhaps, well I just let that thought slip from my mind.
“We want you to work for us, and we’re willing to pay you handsomely for your talent. See, we know from surveillance that you know how to keep your mouth shut, and from your work and school records that you’re the type of person who relishes perfection”. This was true; I guess it was my MidWASP upbringing.
But then there was that word he used again – “surveillance” that annoyed and frightened me.
“So what do I have to do, give some big shot and all his cronies head” I asked smugly, “and WHAT surveillance have you been doing on me?”
“First of all" Ben intoned dryly, "our most famous leader has been deceased for some time and you weren’t his type. Secondly, we know every move and phone call you’ve made for the last year, and every cock you’ve sucked for the last 5 years. You haven’t been out of our electronic sight for one minute” said Ben.
Reeling again, I just had to ask how they accomplished that task since I’m a pretty neat housekeeper and don't 'tell tales out of school'.
“Oh that was easy. Didja ever see the movie called "Enemy of the State” with Gene Hackman and Will Smith?”
“Remember all the cool tracking and surveillance equipment they showed”?
“Well, it’s really 10 times cooler than they portrayed. We planted a 44gHz hairline tracker in your day planner that you always keep nearby,”
(My hand involuntarily went to my purse. Yup, I felt the day planner inside), “and then there’s the video camera with a passive series tap in your clock radio coupled to a 22gHz burst bug”,
“and of course there was the snuggle bug we had in your car to transmit all of those mobile dalliances you’ve had”.
“Oh Jesus H. Christ” I said low and out loud.
Pardon my taking the Lord’s name in vain Father, but I think that it was relevant and necessary at the time.
Woozy from all the information I had just absorbed, my mind raced back to all the cock I had sucked in my car, along with the ones that had cum in my pussy at home. All recorded for the amusement of the some creepy-ass-company-with-no-name.
Who had I slept with or gone down on that they would be so interested in me that they would track my every movement? Assholes!
“No”, continued Ben, “what we want is for you to do what you do best, but do it for your country. As I said, you would be well compensated”.
“So you want me to become a whore for a company I abhor”?
“Not exactly. Think of yourself as being just another office worker in a nameless grey nondescript building, doing a very specialized job few who keep their mouths shut (funny) do well; a job that happens to be hush hush”.
Pondering it, I admit now that the prospect intrigued and thrilled me.
Bond. Jane Bond.
Double oh cocksucker: license to thrill.Ben continued, “Of course, you’d have to keep your regular office job, and do ours afterwards. Would that be a problem? We also could arrange for a promotion within your company, one that would allow you to travel for meetings and conferences on an ongoing basis if you catch my drift”.
My office job WAS getting a bit boring these days; I mean, I graduated Summa Cum (!) Laude from my college and thought that I would be further along in my career than I was at this point.
“There’s just one catch ‘though” intoned Ben as he lowered his voice. “You’ll have to stop seeing Dawn; she’s a security risk”.
I had forgotten about my coworker and our dalliances, but then the thought of that clock radio by my bed containing the bug within came racing back, hitting me with a second brick to my head in less than an hour.
Damn! I forgot about “snail racing Wednesdays”, my midweek dalliance and break from the confines of work.
Dawn and I worked together in the same office as I mentioned before and was sitting but a few feet away getting plastered with the other ‘droids, keeping her now woozy eyes on me every so often to make sure Ben wasn’t taking advantage of me, or more precisely, horning in on her territory.
Not that I was hers mind you, just that she didn’t subscribe to my thoughts that everyone is bisexual at their core. No, Dawn was a confirmed carpet muncher, or in my case, a snail racer. As I said, I’m fastidious in cleaning, and frankly I love the feel of a smooth clam. Hair doesn’t catch or irritate me when I actually decide to wear my La Perla’s.
Once a week on Wednesday, Dawn and I would get together for a bottle of wine and a DVD movie, and after many months of enjoying the midweek download of current work related dramas, we found ourselves laughing and rolling on the floor as we watched Better Than Chocolate. I don’t know of it was the wine or the sexy comedy she brought over for us to watch as part of her Big Plan, but I found myself brushing across her firm breasts as we sat on the couch laughing.
During a particularly intense moment of video cinematography, Dawn flipped her long brown hair over my face as she turned towards me to give me an air kiss-kiss. I felt a rush of blood to my face when I asked her “Did you ever think about doing it with another woman”?
Brushing her locks away from her eyes, she then turned her fingers towards mine, and running them gently up the side of my head, pulled me closer “All the time, every day that I see you at work”, she whispered before placing a light kiss upon my slightly parted lips.
Not unpleasant I thought, so in turn I reciprocated. And then she to me.
Now more passionately. Now a touch on the shoulder, and me to her thigh. And a caress. A light touch on my breast, then a grasp on Dawn’s taut hard nipples. Our lips colliding like race cars. Stars exploding. Our bodies twitching, limbs akimbo as we tumbled onto the floor. Searching hands, once lightly touching, now urging my jeans from my body.
Dawn’s well-proportioned fingers grasping my P&J's, spines reaching upwards with each caress. Tongues lashed to one another, spinning wildly as our passions build.
Then in a twinkling, digits exploring the outer lips of my vagina in long strokes, nails lightly touching my inner walls. Harder now, Dawn’s fingertip pressing into my swollen rosebud, me crying out in the ecstasy of explosions that only another woman can give to her own kind.
Knowledge of intimate secrets whispered around school locker rooms, delights carnally enjoyed within home bathtubs, the feeling of shag carpet as it is rubbed hard, bellies drug across during early sexual exploration. You girls know what I mean.
More exploration, more touching, more kissing, more tongue. Exploring. Sucking. Anticipating. Caressing.
Suddenly a moan escaped my mouth as Dawn’s lips met mine for the first time, her tiny pointed member exploring my garden. Examining every nuance, every branch and cavity, she continued as I did while sounds of pleasure escaped my mouth in mounting fits and waves, explosions of emotion lifting me to the stars, climaxing in a fireworks display deep inside my head and loins. Unable to contain myself longer and grasping Dawn’s head, I pulled her face in farther and closer than any human before or since had been to the real me, and I came in mounting spasms of joy.
That's how snail racing Wednesday’s came to be.