This chapter of Spy Games coincides with chapters one and two of Real Estate Games. If you haven’t read Real Estate Games, or haven’t read it recently, I suggest you read these two chapters… either before or after reading the text below. Some of the scenes that I only mention in this chapter of Spy Games are explained in greater detail in Real Estate Games. You might also enjoy experiencing the same scenes from Janis’ viewpoint.
Miss Janis Moorehead and I got off to a bit of a rough start in the business department. Her first official act as my realtor was to show me a property on Sundress Street. Being the cautious guy I am, I arrived a half hour early, parked a block away, and let myself into the house… which was ridiculously easy. No alarm and a drunken baboon could have picked the back door lock.
Miss Moorehead arrived a few minutes later, dressed like she was going to a funeral, and accompanied by another realtor who was old enough to have fought in the civil war. A quick text convinced her to lose the octogenarian and, by the time we left the property, she had changed into something more appropriate for the occasion… compliments of the owner’s closet. Janis’ initial hesitancy to take another woman’s clothes displayed a disturbing sense of morality. Something I’d have to work on.
Our next stop was a pitiful excuse for a condo located near the town center. Now that I had Miss Moorehead properly dressed and alone, it was time to see if she would take the next step. Was she willing to share her body with me?
There is an art to getting a woman naked. Sure, with the skills Boris the pick pocket taught me, I could easily remove her clothes, but then all I’d have was an extremely angry naked woman on my hands. And what good is an angry female, naked or clothed? My goal was to convince Miss Moorehead to help me buy all the available Merryville real estate and, at the same time, get the cooperation of the local ruling class. Since her body was by far her best asset, I needed to know if she’d be willing to use it to further my cause.
I started my “get Miss Moorehead naked” quest at the previous house by tricking her into changing out of her stuffy business suit and into something more casual. The less clothes to remove, the easier it would be.
The next step was getting her comfortable with the idea of nakedness. That’s why I took my shirt off first. It set a precedent. ‘If he’s half naked, I should reciprocate,’ she would think.
And lastly, once I made my move… once I started removing her clothes… I needed to get it done quickly.
Thanks to Boris’ tutelage, Miss Moorehead was stripped down to her panties before her lips could form the word “no”.
When you’ve got a woman naked for the first time, it’s hard not to stare… especially when the woman was as nicely put together as Miss Moorehead. I wouldn’t call her a big girl, but nobody would ever accuse her of being skinny. Good sized boobs, balanced with an appropriately sized ass made her body the type a man could lose himself in.
That assessment of her physique was made later. Even as her dress and bra dropped to the floor, my eyes remained glued to her baby blues. Mrs. Bancroft would have been proud. I didn’t say “nice rack” or “I’d ride your caboose any day of the week”. I did nothing at all to acknowledge her nakedness and instead, told her I’d make lunch if she’d find me something to drink.
Surprisingly, she didn’t protest when I removed her clothing, but she did give me shit about taking food out of a starving man’s pantry. Which told me more about her soul than staring into her eyes.
Now I’m not saying that Miss Moorehead freely gave herself to me. When I picked her luscious body up in my arms and laid her on the kitchen table, she certainly objected. But not for long. Once I explained the rules of the game. Once she knew that my primary mission was to buy houses — an insane number of houses — and the extracurricular activities were only meant to make the process more pleasant… she calmed down and acquiesced.
That’s when I discovered the true wonderfulness of her body. I used the excuse of feeding her lunch to explore every inch of her flesh. Whipped cream on her nipples. Strawberry jam on her mountainous chest. Fruit slices stretching from her cleavage to her flat belly. Lines of chocolate and caramel sauce stretched the length of her luscious legs. And the coup de grace… I shoved a cherry in her snatch and dug it out with my tongue.
Some women are easy to woo, others can be a pain in the ass. Miss Moorehead was fun. Whatever I did seemed okay with her. She responded well to every place I touched. I swear she had a hundred erogenous zones. Every place I stroked, licked, tickled, or nibbled reacted with pleasure. And she wasn’t shy about verbally expressing her joy. She giggled and laughed and sighed and moaned. Not like a trained prostitute. Miss Moorehead was a woman who was very comfortable in herself Anadolu Yakası Escort and not afraid to let me know. The temptation to drop trou and take her right there on the kitchen table was enormous. But I didn’t want our first fuck to be on some guy’s kitchen table. So, I led her to the very edge of release, gave her one last kiss, and left.
2404 Surrender Court
Miss Moorehead picked one of the nicer homes in the city for our last showing of the day. She conveniently mentioned that the owners were out of town and would be for a couple of days… insinuating that we had the place to ourselves all night. I cooked dinner, we sampled the wine cellar and, after we ate, I told her to find something appropriate from the owner’s closet to wear for the rest of the evening. This time she didn’t balk about borrowing somebody else’s clothes and picked out the perfect outfit. It wasn’t a fancy cocktail dress or a high-priced negligee. She joined me in the media room wearing a well-worn, man’s dress shirt with the top three buttons undone… and nothing else. We spent a couple of hours cuddling on the couch as we watched a movie and then it was time for the big event.
It was a seduction straight from Mrs. Bancroft’s textbook. I made the initial contact the day before at the open house on Cavalry Way and probed her vulnerabilities that night at the All Hands Steak House. Her outer layer of defense was stripped away the following morning on Sundress Street and her moral shield of protection washed clean in the downtown condo. Now, after a gourmet meal and two hours of foreplay, she was mine for the taking. Everything about her was primed for sex. Her pupils were dilatated to twice normal size, the hairs on her arms were standing on end, her heart rate was up and her breathing rapid and shallow. Not to mention the obvious signs of feminine arousal… hardened nipples and damp pussy.
It was a done deal. Had been from the moment I met her. I was going to fuck Miss Moorehead and, when we were done, she would beg me for more. How did I know this? She was the seven hundredth and forty fifth woman I’d seduced… and it always worked.
But when I carried the naked beauty into the bedroom — the bed already turned down, the lights dimmed for optimum effect — a nagging thought crept into my mind.
What happens after we do it? What happens after I rock her boat like it has never been rocked before? After I bring her to a series of orgasms that increase in magnitude until she passes out. Then what?
The deed will have been done. The conquest made. And yet I would still have to do business with her for at least the next few weeks and maybe months. I’d never done that before. My job with the Company was to bed the girl, get the information and move on.
Move on was the last thing I wanted to do with Miss Moorehead. It was early in our relationship, but I thought I might actually like her. When I woke up that morning, I wasn’t looking forward to fucking her. I was looking forward to spending the day with her. Now don’t get me wrong, I definitely wanted to bed the beautiful blonde at some point in the future. But I can always find a willing, warm, wet, woman to sheath my cock. That night on Surrender Court, as I gently lowered her hot and bothered body onto the king-sized bed, I realized I was also looking forward to spending the next day with her.
For some inconceivable reason, the little man on my shoulder — be he angel, devil or too much wine — told me that screwing Miss Moorehead that evening was the wrong thing to do. So, I tucked her into the bed, kissed her lightly on the lips and left.
It was well past 10:00 pm by the time I got back to our four-bedroom hideout in the woods. Flanagan was out playing cop and, since the place was completely dark, I assumed Sixty-nine was already in bed. Which was a good thing. I didn’t want to explain to Flanagan why I wasn’t sleeping with Miss Moorehead, and I certainly wasn’t looking forward to hearing our young spy-in-training apologize for whatever it was she screwed up earlier in the day.
I parked my rental in the driveway and opened the side kitchen door as quietly as I could, hoping to not wake Sixty-nine. I knew something was wrong as soon as I took my first step into the kitchen. It was an intuitive thing, a sixth sense developed over years of breaking into other people’s houses and offices. The place smelled of cleaning products, but that wasn’t it. Somebody was watching me. I couldn’t see him or hear him… but he was there. Somewhere in the house. Waiting.
He had a gun. How did I know? I could smell the gun oil. That’s right, despite the obvious ruse of pouring detergent in the sink, my nose was so sensitive, I could still detect the slightest trace of the solvent used to clean military weapons.
Leaving the lights off, I stepped into the kitchen, planning to secure a knife before going after the intruder. Halfway to the knife drawer I sensed Pendik Escort movement to my left. I planted my right foot, like a running back cutting into the hole, and lunged towards the attacker. After that, the sequence of events gets a bit muddled. I saw the muzzle flash, heard the gun shot, and felt my legs go out from under me. I tried to scramble to my feet but kept falling. I couldn’t get traction, like I was on an ice rink. The asshole with the gun, who I now knew was in the dining room, less than ten feet in front of me, shot two more times, missing each time.
Giving up on walking, I got to my knees and did a forward roll… placing me on the dining room carpet directly in front of and slightly below the shooter. Finally able to stand, my left hand grabbed the gun, my right his shirt and, to be thorough, I kneed him in the balls. Which didn’t have near the effect I expected. Because he was a she.
How did I know it was a girl? First off, she didn’t scream in agony as my knee slammed into her crotch and lifted her a foot into the air. And secondly, men don’t have tits. Instead of grasping a handful of shirt, I had a firm grip on what I estimated to be a C cup boob.
“If you don’t let me go, the men who live here will hunt you down and feed you through a woodchipper… while you’re still alive,” the struggling but familiar voice said.
“Really Sixty-nine? A woodchipper?”
“Agent Alpha? What are you doing here?”
“Last I knew, I live here.”
“Yes sir, you do. But…”
“Listen carefully Sixty-nine. Before we have this conversation, you’re going to let go of the gun. Once you do that, I’ll release you so you can turn on the lights. Then and only then, will we figure out what went wrong tonight.”
With the lights on and the pistol safely in my hands, I began what I thought a systematic dissection of the goat fuck that damn near got both of us killed. As usual, Sixty-nine’s intentions were good, but her execution needed some work.
“Walk me through what happened tonight,” I told her.
“I’m sorry. I’m sure it’s all my fault –“
“Do you realize how annoying that is? You saying you’re sorry all the time?”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know it bothered you.”
“It does. So, quit saying it. Just tell me the facts and I’ll decide who to blame.”
“Yes sir. Well, since you and Agent Foxtrot –“
“Flanagan. Agent Foxtrot’s cover is Officer Brian Flanagan for this mission. You will call him that for as long as we are in Merryville.”
“Yes sir, I’m… Yes sir. I will. Since you and Flanagan weren’t going to be back until the morning –“
“What made you think I wouldn’t be sleeping here tonight?”
“Flanagan said you were going out with the blonde realtor, and it was a guarantee that you’d be spending the night with her.”
“Her name is Miss Moorehead. Janis Moorehead. And don’t believe everything Flanagan says.”
“Yes sir. I’ll remember that. But at the time, I thought I would be all alone tonight so, instead of doing my nails and watching Netflix all evening, I decided to do something useful.”
“I scrubbed the kitchen floor and cleaned all of your guns.”
“Which explains why the house smells like a hospital, the kitchen floor is slicker than a frozen lake and the handle of my Sig feels like a freshly caught bass.”
“You used way too much floor cleaner and gun oil.”
“Don’t say it,” I interrupted. “We’re still in the fact-finding phase of this investigation. We’ll assign blame later. Now tell me, have you ever done those tasks before? Or is this the first time you’ve cleaned a floor or a gun.”
“I watched our maid clean floors when I was at home, but this was the first time I’d ever touched a gun, much less clean one.”
“And obviously the first time you’ve ever shot a gun. Since you tried to kill me three times, at short range, and failed.”
“Yes sir. And I’m really sorry about that.”
“Sorry that you tried to kill me or sorry that you missed?”
She didn’t respond with words. She didn’t have to. The tears running down her cheeks said it all. As she continued to cry, I realized how vulnerable the girl was. Fresh out of college, teamed up with a couple of assholes like Flanagan and me, working on a high priority mission that could go south at any moment. She looked like a little rich girl who had taken a wrong turn and ended up on the bad side of town. Dressed in nothing but a flannel night gown, she couldn’t have weighed much more than a buck twenty. And yet here she was, living with a man who is paid to take advantage of women and his faithful sidekick, the world’s top assassin.
Bottom line, if she wanted to be in the game, she’d have to toughen up. If not, we’d have to get rid of her before somebody really got hurt.
“Do you want to be here?” I asked.
“I know I screwed up. I know everything bad that’s happened is my fault. And I’m sorry I was forced on you.”
“Stop. Stop Kurtköy Escort apologizing and answer the damn question. Do you want to be part of this mission?”
“Yes sir. I do. Very much.”
“Then things are going to have to change. First off, the words ‘I’m sorry’ are stricken from your vocabulary. If you say them again, you will be punished. You need to realize that this is not completely your fault. I can’t blame you for not knowing how to cook or clean a floor or service a pistol. But shooting at someone you can’t see… that is inexcusable.”
“Oh sir, I am so sorry about…”
And that’s where I lost it. Her saying “I’m sorry” — seconds after I told her not to — put me over the edge. One minute I’m having what I think is a teaching moment with a young agent and the next I’m sitting on the couch with a twenty-two-year-old girl turned over my knee. Her flannel night gown is bunched up around her waist, her granny panties pushed down her thighs and I’m spanking her bare ass like a musician beating a bongo drum.
After the fourth or fifth swat I realized that what I was doing was wrong, but it also occurred to me that the recipient of my rage wasn’t protesting. She wasn’t screaming for help, cursing my name, or making any effort to free herself. If anything, she purposely positioned her lithe body on my lap to make the target area more assessable to my open palm. I gave her another swat which elicited a soft moan. Subsequent smacks were rewarded with increasingly louder laments and, after several more, she spread her legs, arched her back and squealed like a chipmunk in heat as her body tremored from head to toe.
When it was done. After her body quick shaking. She lay perfectly still on my lap as I inspected the damage. Yes, her ass was redder than a fire engine, but there was no blood, no cuts and the hand prints I left would most likely disappear by morning. Not knowing what else to do, I gently put her panties back into place and pulled the nightgown down to cover them.
Sixty-nine took the hint and extricated herself from my lap. She turned toward me to reveal a pretty face that was nearly as red as her bottom.
“Sir, I’m… That was… I’ve never…”
“Go to bed Sixty-nine. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”
Sleep didn’t come easily that night. Despite being alone in my bed, two women were keeping me awake. I wasn’t quite sure what had happened between Sixty-nine and me but beating her like an insolent child could have been the dumbest thing I’d done in the last few months… including my exploits trying to get into Alek Popov’s safe. If word of what happened ever got back to the Ball Busting Bitch she might take her nickname literally. But the deed was done and losing sleep wouldn’t undo it.
So, I put my tawdry escapade with Sixty-nine out of mind and, when I was just dropping off, I remembered that I hadn’t closed the back door or reset the alarm when I left Miss Moorehead at the house on Surrender Court. Which bothered me for a couple of reasons.
One: I told Miss Moorehead to spend the night. Not that I really expected her to comply, especially after I deserted her hot and bothered naked body all alone on that king-sized bed. But on the outside chance she was still in a house specifically chosen for its seclusion, I was worried about her safety.
That was the second reason I was having trouble getting to sleep. Why was I worried about Miss Moorehead’s wellbeing? She was just another woman. One of many pawns in our plan to sacrifice the town of Merryville for the good of the nation. But I was worried about her. Which went against one of Mrs. Bancroft’s cardinal rules. “Don’t get personally involved with your target.”
I probably need to clarify that last statement. Mrs. B wasn’t a proponent of the “find ’em, fuck ’em, forget ’em” school of romance. She insisted that, whenever possible, I left my female conquests in better mental, physical and financial shape than they were prior to my brief intrusion into their lives. But she always advised me to leave without a thread of emotional entanglement. Advice that I had hitherto heeded.
After an hour or so of tossing and turning, I picked up the phone and did the only thing that would clear my mind. I called my trusty collaborator in all things criminal.
“Hey. I need you to do something for me,” I told Flanagan.
“Name it. There’s nothing more boring than driving around a dying town at midnight.”
“I left Miss Moorehead at one of the houses we’re buying. I want you to drop by and make sure she’s okay. I’ll text you the address.”
“You’re not with her?”
“I decided to come home early.”
“You struck out?”
“What does that mean? You either boned her or you didn’t.”
“Just go by the house, make sure the doors are locked and everything inside is secured.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“Be a good cop and tie it down.”
“Can do easy.”
“Just make sure Miss Moorehead doesn’t see you.”
“I can’t believe you felt the need to say that.”
“Sorry. It’s been a long day. Oh, and keep an eye on Sixty-nine tomorrow. We had an event tonight. And don’t worry about the bullet holes in the kitchen. I’ll patch them up later.”