The Whistleblower Pt 02

My eyes scan in disbelief over every detail in the BDSM image: from the specific dungeon equipment, to the dominatrix towering over the submissive man.

"And now I've answered both your questions," she says, as I remain transfixed by the phone.

"Regarding your job question; this is the kind of stuff I deal in: BDSM equipment, clothing and the like. In fact this is my website. I'm here in the UK to check out some merchandisers, do some importing, and ..."

Her words tail off as puts a hand on my shoulder again, playing with my collar, causing my heart to flutter yet again; distracting me from the website. The only further words spoken remain hers though.

"... and maybe play some while I'm here."

I turn to search her face, shocked as I am, looking for meaning in her words. Was it a casual off the cuff remark? Was it a question?

"I'm not into it all the time," - she adds, her eyes looking into mine sincerely - "but I am into it."

I look back to the picture again, not necessarily focussing, my eyes instead searching the left and right corners of my brain.

"So whadya think Patrick?" she asks with a playful smirk, "still wanna hang out with me?"

My mind races. All I can manage is an audible swallow. Time stands still as I continue to look into the phone in her hand, unsure of what to say or do.

Her gloved hand puts the phone down in front of me, before reaching over, unexpectedly slapping the far side of my face, albeit gently.

"Uhhh!" I gasp.

The shock leaves me rigid, requiring some physicality from her as she takes my chin and guides it round to look directly at her.

A smile comes over her as she examines my face, cupped in her hand. "I think maybe you're the kind of boy who needs some leading. Some instruction."

I can almost feel myself welling up, offended and confused by the sudden and unexpected assault, not to mention her words.

"Mmmm, there's promise though," she continues, uttering to herself "Such cute, whisky coloured puppy dog eyes," as she squints deep into my soul.

I'm paralysed. Shock from the slap aside, her leather gloved restraint has me stopped in my tracks.

"Not everyman is secure enough in their own sexuality for this kind of thing," she muses, still holding my face. "Most men just don't appreciate a strong woman."

I'm torn between telling her she's got the wrong boy, and telling her the complete opposite, but nothing comes out from my squished mouth. I can only communicate with my eyes - now admittedly open wide in puppy dog style worship. But there's also nervousness; my stomach fluttering slightly at this potential juncture in my life, now apparently eclipsing the issue of my own freedom.

I'm overcome with a want put myself in the picture with her. To please her.

"So," she reiterates, letting go of her grip, "How does the website make you feel?"

For sure I've seen websites like this many, many times. You'd only have to see my browser history to know that.

Finally, my thoughts are verbalised with a gasped, "I'm blown away!"

"Blown away?" she says; a disbelieving tone.

"Is that blown away in a god way? Are you sure you're the kind of boy who can handle this?" she asks, challenging me.

"Yes," I say, my vocal chords betraying me with a squeak.

I'm hyperventilating somewhat, struggling to get it out. "I mean ..." as I gasp for breath like a drowning man. "Blown away in a good way. Live and let live, thats what I say."

"Very good," she purrs. "Now keep on looking," is the command, continuing to scroll on the phone with her free hand.

I quickly scan the room for people nearby to see if they've caught on to the unfolding situation between us, and what we're looking at on the screen.

Drawn into the mobile phone screen again, the new image is that of a woman striking a dominant pose, latex stocking-clad legs spread apart. The sleek hosiery is held up by a matching, tightly fitted black latex basque. A long latex-gloved hand rests on her waist, while the other wields a whip aloft. Her face is obscured by a tight fitting latex mask, revealing only features from holes in the mouth, eyes, and the rear of the mask through which a dark-haired pony tail protrudes. A snarl on the woman's mouth shows a sharp contrast between her pearly white teeth and bright red lipstick, the menace matched by a wicked glint in her green eyes. Green eyes?

"Oh my god Jess! Is that you?"

"You got it!", she exclaims, clearly delighted this time. "So truth or dare time. I went first, now its your turn - do you find it sexy?"

"I... I... I've never played tru-

"Do you find it sexy?" She interrupts.

It results in a quicker "yes! yes!," almost pleading like response from me this time. "You look great!"

"Well why don't you check out more of the website while I excuse myself and seek out the restroom," she says with an encouraging smile.

I watch her hips sway between tables on the way to the toilets, and catch my face in one of the cafe's large mirrored walls, noticing my shocked and shaken look. I wonder if she picked up on it.

How trusting of her though. Or maybe she's just ultra-confident. I could in theory get the hell out of here, taking her cellphone with me. She doesn't know anything about me after all; doesn't know me from Adam! I could be a real scumbag. Of course, I'm not; in fact far from it - in my opinion anyway. As regards the espionage stuff, I'm really not a traitor - I just want to do what's right for humanity. But this is a whole different situation separate from my other troubles. It's just crazy the way she's singled me out? What is it they say... women's intuition?

Safely out of her sight, I feel able to look at her phone without embarrassment. Reviewing the images on her website, I come over all giddy again. The initial shock isn't present, and neither is the feeling of having your soul lade bare - as I'm alone for now. No, its something else. I'd say what I'm viewing makes my mouth dry, but that's not quite correct. Imagining myself as being present in the scenario onscreen makes my mouth actually water, and the thought of Jess as the dominatrix in question more so.

Sidling up to me again on her return, she reopens the conversation with "Hey, don't make any assumptions about me by the way. I don't go for coffee with every cute boy I see on the subway. Lets just say I'm excited at meeting a compatriot in this big city where I'm a foreigner."

"Oh me too!" I say, nodding wholeheartedly, reminded again of my own loneliness.

"It's funny how in a city of almost nine million people you can still feel this way," I say. "I'm staying with a local girl I know while I'm over here," further elaborating to a just about perceptible raised eye from Jess, "so I'm not completely alone I guess, but its great to talk to someone from back home.

"But Patrick," she chides, "you haven't really talked at all. At least you haven't opened up about yourself, without my, ehr ... prompts. I've inappropriately overshared!" she says

giggling, her demeanour less threatening.

"So now it's your turn. Or have you developed a British reserve during your time here?"

"No, not at all," I reply, "it's all just a bit uhh... (secretive is what I want to say) nerdy. Yes nerdy. I'm a scientist you see."

"Oh that's so cool!" Her face is animated in its response. "What kind of science?"

"Molecular science." I can't help but shuffle when I admit it. You could argue my job title is amazing, but I'm uncomfortable and feel somewhat inferior in comparison to this fetish goddess of a businesswoman.

"So are you working in the molecular science field here in the UK?" she probes.

"Nope. I'm kind of on sabbatical."

In other words I quit my job and took some important secrets away with me.

"And while I'm here I'm contributing on a magazine article."

In other words I'm hoping that a British news magazine editor will listen to me and publish details of the wrongdoings I've seen back in the ole US of A.

Oh crap that reminds me! I look at my watch, remembering with panic that I'd been on my way to meet up with a journalist I'd made contact with.

"You gotta be someplace?" she asks, sensing my alarm.

"Yeh, an important meeting with a journalist. Someplace nearby here in Canary Wharf. I'm not totally sure where though."

"I tell you what Pete; I'll escort you there. We can use sat-nav on my phone. Maybe on the way I can suggest another meet-up? Perhaps involving a grown-up drink?" She motions with her coffee cup, adding again with a giggle, "Maybe loosen you up enough to see if you have any secrets that you can overshare with me this time?"

Duly escorting me to the appointment on time, she promises to be in touch regarding the 'meet-up', in her words, and saves me the trouble of whether to depart with a kiss on the cheek, by holding out a gloved hand, palm down. "How about you kiss the ladies hand given that we're in this terribly formal country?" she says.

I don't feel able to offer any complaints, and thus mark our goodbyes by obligingly taking the outstretched hand, kissing it softly.

She wanders off into the concrete jungle, noticeably less hurriedly this time, leaving me with mixed emotions. I'm undoubtedly excited about this man-eating goddess who has barged her way into my life, but also scared and confused by her actions. Not having much experience with girls, and lacking in confidence, I'm still unsure of her motivations.

Paranoia as to whether Jess and I are already in some kind of stranger than normal 'friend-zone' aside, I'm nonetheless feeling pretty chipper by the time I'm invited in to see the journalist, a power-suited forty something looking woman by the name of Becky.

Pissing on my parade by shaking her head throughout my story, I'm inclined to stop halfway and ask "What?... There's a problem here?"

"There's a problem alright Mr Mckenzie: you just don't have any evidence, and while its a great story, we need to get a professional in your field to validate it. Before we go any further, you yourself need to come back to us with evidence of some sort to convince any expert we use of the stories authenticity.

"Maybe I have stuff ..." I muse, half to myself, my eyes looking up to the ceiling as they search the corners of my brain.

I do have evidence of course, but I'm not about to put all of it on the line and risk my leverage.

Becky walks over to my chair and perches herself on the edge of her table - "Look Mr Mckenzie. Patrick. We've been hoaxed before, and my editor absolutely demands proof of authenticity that's been verified by an impartial expert, so please come back to us when you've got something tangible."

I trudge from the meeting, tail between my legs, seeking solace in the friendly banter of my go-to lifestyle guru: Katie Hopkins.

I'd known Katie since she'd came Statesside on a sabbatical to my department. We hit it off straightaway, her full-on personality complimenting my quiet, bookish characteristics, and we'd kept in touch on her return to the UK.

I'd already had a mind to blow the whistle while she was with us, and had started to gather evidence at that point. Having recently confided in her by telephone about what was going on in the industry, It was Katie who'd suggested I hightail it from the States and lay low here, though she didn't think going to the media was a particular good idea.

So here I am couch surfing at her place in South London. And South London is where I'm heading to meet her right now, though on checking in with her by text she'd said she wasn't at her place in Herne Hill at the moment, but off for a swim in nearby Brixton, and did I want to join her?

Grabbing a bite to eat at the recreation centre's cafe overlooking the Olympic sized swimming pool, It's not too difficult to spot the fair skinned Katie amongst the more ethnic cultural melting pot of swimmers doing laps, especially given she's not wearing a swimming cap; not really needing one given she's got shaved hair.

She's no Sinead O'Conner; the female shaven head requiring a facial symmetry and beauty that Katie in no way posseses. Homely is probably the most complimentary thing you could say about her face. But in her own cockney slang words, "the old boat race might not be up to much, but the body more than makes up for it."

I marvel at her technique, then marvel some more at her physique when she gracefully perches herself up on the side to drip dry.

She's rocking a rather high cut, one piece, black swimming suit, highlighting an athletic body, presumably honed from daily swimming. It's a crying shame she's otherwise always in masculine styled clothes, but I guess that's how Katie rolls.

Probably feeling a bit more confident than I'd normally be, I conclude that I'd be up for it if she offered, though looking at the face again, maybe it would have to be doggystyle!. Who am I kidding though; I'm just not a casual hookup kind of guy, or any kind of hookup guy for that matter. Anyway, as another Katieism goes: "this girl doesn't do cock!"

Joining me after getting herself dried and changed, the talk is all about how my appointment with the media went, until that is, I mention Jess.

"You met a hot woman?", she exasperates, gawping. "I've been telling you for ages you have to get yourself laid! Good on yer!"

"So when's the date then? Hey, why don't you suggest a date at the pool? Then you can check out her body properly before you commit to anything, and I can too!"

"Hell no Katie, you can forget about it. I don't want you hitting on my date. Besides , I'm a bit hydrophobic. Almost drowned in the Charles river in Boston when I was a kid."

"That sounds like a great way to go though Pat. I heard from a pathologist friend once that drowning is autoerotic. But then I'm a total water baby. Hey, did I tell you I love golden showers? Love to give 'em too. I don't do boys of course, but I'd be happy to make an exception in your case Patrick. You need to explore your perverted side."

"That really doesn't surprise me," I say with a pained expression, "and that's a no to your offer, though thanks anyway."

"Aw Paddy! Such a prude," she says with a smirk, "you can't even explicitly say it can you?"

"Alright then, Katie, thank you for your generous offer to void on me," (I emphasise the void) "but I am going to have to decline it in favour of a date with a charming American lady at the Prince Charles cinema this evening," I reiterate, before blowing her a playful kiss.

"Ok lover-boy, but one of these days I'll get to piss on you," she says, determined to finish the argument on a winning streak.