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!
Un
like 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
