Communication can be difficult, especially when it's easy.
(This story takes place in the "Newer Universe" series.)
Keywords: MF ScFi interr
As he stood up from the limousine, the first bellboy pounced. "Welcome, sir. Please follow me. Joseph, help them with the bags." (You look rich. So let Joe do the work, and give me the tip.)
The young man introduced himself as he led them across the lobby past the front desk. "I'm Peter. Anything you need, just let me know, sir." (Keep the cash flowing, and I'll suck up just as much as you like.)
He provided the essential service of pushing the 'up' button on the elevator panel. When Peter turned, he stiffened, just for a moment, as he took note of the two men who'd followed from the car. Humorless, dark clothing, intent. Bodyguards.
The door opened, allowing them all to board. "Will you be staying with us for a while, sir?" (How much cash are we likely to extract from you, anyway?)
"My plans are not settled yet." (Excessive curiosity jeopardizes your tip.)
He stole a glance at the impassive faces at the front and side of the elevator. "I see, sir." (Shit! I'm sorry, I'll be good!)
Thereafter Peter was a model of laconic decorum as he showed them the facilities of the executive suite. Two large bedrooms, two bathrooms, a well-appointed central room. It would do.
Joseph arrived with the bags as Peter was finishing. Thame pulled out his wallet and presented each man with a fresh twenty. He nodded to Joseph. "Your efforts are appreciated." (Your efforts - as opposed to Peter's - are appreciated.)
The bellhops left with dissimilar expressions - Joseph smiling, Peter nervous.
Stephan and Alejandro had already begun sweeping the rooms, attempting to satisfy themselves no traps or bugs lurked about. Thame loosened his tie, opened his briefcase, and started looking over the faxed reports from far-flung subordinates. Most of them were garbled and scrambled. Useless... to anyone but him.
The border dispute between China and India bore watching. It would be stupid for either side to escalate - but nations weren't always sensible. And when they weren't, there was often money to be had. Which side would be better to sign on with, though? At first glance, India seemed more promising, all told. More accepting of mercenaries. But long-term concerns might urge a different choice.
He'd had time to get through two briefings before his security team conceded they couldn't find issues... yet. Thame gathered up the papers and made for the desk in one of the bedrooms.
Alejandro spoke up as he passed. "Need anything, sir?" (Will you be working long?)
"Not at the moment." (Into the night, I fear.) "Perhaps you could look into some companionship for the evening?" (Get me a girl. You know what I like.)
"I'll check, sir," Alejandro replied. (I don't care how horny - or lonely - you are, security comes first.)
"That will be all for now, I think." (I'll stay here until morning, just keep the room secure.)
"Fine, sir." (Keep the shades drawn this time.)
He had some difficulty getting back to the briefings. It was disconcerting how much had changed in eight months. He hadn't rated such elaborate protection before.
Stephan and Alejandro had always been assigned to high-risk clients since he'd hired them. Former soldiers in Spain, they had become bodyguards afterward. Set assassins to block assassins, went the logic - and it had proven sound logic several times.
But his own risk was rather higher, now.
Her voice sounded sharp, but it wasn't the phone's fault. Her frustration would have been obvious, even before. "Two weeks?" (Your daughters are growing up without you!)
"Nichevo." (It can't be helped.) Usually he stuck to Greek anymore, though sprinkled with words from a dozen other tongues. Such as that wonderful Russian term. It conveyed resignation and fatalism so perfectly.
As his first language, though, Greek was the easiest to carefully phrase things in. There had been some embarrassing incidents before he'd hit upon the trick of making neutral comments, letting the message he intended get conveyed.
Portia didn't sound mollified. "Come home as soon as you can." (Or else.) "I love you." (Though you make it hard sometimes.)
"I love you too." (Despite your harangues.) "See you soon." (As I can.)
He hung up the phone and sat for a moment. This life had never been in his plans. When he'd gone into intelligence, it had been in a nice quiet office. Even when he'd worked late, it was only twenty minutes from home.
Now he was away far more often, and for far longer, than ever before. And he still wasn't sure if his family was safer or not.
Alejandro would give him hell later, he knew, but he pulled open the curtains and looked out at the clouds. Natural scenes were restful now. If trees or clouds or mountains or rivers contained messages from God... those, at least, he could not interpret.
He went back to reviewing more reports, jotting down recommendations. Choosing clients was enormously more important now. They needed jobs Scylla could accomplish - ideally ones no one else could do. But they couldn't be jobs that would make irreconcilable enemies.
Not yet, at least...
A knock at the door to his room. Stephan leaned in. "Sir? Dinner is here." (I agree with Alejandro about the drapes, you know.)
"Thank you." (Fine, fine. I'm closing them.)
The evening sun had just fully set when another knock came at the door. Alejandro called through, "Sir?" (She's here. The girl you wanted.)
"A moment." (Let me secure my papers.)
It took scant seconds to store the reports in his briefcase and lock it. He came to the door and opened it.
Stephan had the better English. "Mr. Panagitis will see you now." (She's clean, no weapons.)
Thame's eyes widened briefly. The young woman was, of course, attractive. He'd guess her at one hundred seventy centimeters without the heels, clean-limbed, with a slender waist that accented her rounded bosom and hips. Full lips, nose slightly wide, open brown eyes. Smooth skin, naturally. All to be expected, given the price he could afford to pay. What he hadn't expected was the tone of the the skin - a rich brown, coffee with at most a hint of cream. And her black hair was lustrous, but tightly curled.
Her dress was tan, sleeveless, and while not overly tight, followed her curves with suppleness. As befitted her station as a higher-end escort, the skirt was above the knee but comfortably below the hips. The neckline revealed an enticing rather than titillating amount of cleavage. The heels matched the dress and were perhaps just a centimeter or two higher than average. A light wrap, necessary on a March evening, hung off one arm. She held a small red clutch in one hand; he noted the shade matched her nails.
She stepped forward, smile firmly in place. "Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Panagitis." (I think maybe you're not pleased to meet me. But I'm a competent professional.)
He smiled himself as he stepped back, waving her into the bedroom. "Thame, by all means. And you are?" (Let's be friendly, or at least professional.)
"Candace. Or Candy. You pick." Her smile never wavered, but he sensed her meaning. (It'll help tell me what kind of night I'm in for.) While she approached, she was taking in data - his dark hair and eyes, his beard, the slight frown-lines around his eyes. His tall frame, square though not overbroad shoulders. His expensive shirt and shoes, the fashionably-pastel suit pants.
"I'm pleased to meet you as well, Candace." (I'd prefer a young woman, not a girl.) She brushed by him and he closed the door.
Her eyes were making an experienced sweep of the room as she set her wrap and purse down on the table by the door. Taking in the tidiness, the lack of alcohol smell. The matching jacket and tie set neatly aside. "You seemed a little surprised just now." (You're disappointed I'm not white, right?)
"A surprise is usually an opportunity, I've found." (Actually, I'm intrigued.)
"Have you been to Atlanta before?" (Haven't run into too many black people, have you?)
Americans had such a toxic attitude about race. Slavery had left deep wounds that had closed with a great deal of scar tissue. Europe's colonialism had been no better in practice, except that it had fostered a certain isolation. Racism by policy, not everyday behavior. Segregation was less marked.
"No, though it seems a very pleasant city. Certainly the people are interesting." (Please, relax. I'm not what you fear.)
A very slight frown as she visibly put the issue aside. "Where are you from?" (I can't figure out if you have an accent or not.)
"Greece, originally. Now... an endless number of hotels, it seems." (I'm hoping for some companionship as well as sex.)
"Wow, you sound like you grew up around here." For once, words and intent were congruent.
He replied with the same alignment. "I have a special talent for languages."
She glanced at the door. "Are those guys gonna stay out there?" Several meanings there. (I don't want an audience) along with (I want to be able to run if you turn out to be a creep) and (If you need bodyguards, I don't want to get in any crossfire).
He responded in kind. "They're very discreet." (I'm the only one you're here to entertain) along with (You have nothing to fear from me) and (They're just a precaution).
She paused a moment, then seemed to decide to accept his words again. "You're a good-looking man," she drawled, just a hint of slyness in her tone, her eyes. (How should I play this? Are you the kind who likes the idea of screwing a slut, or do you want me to pretend to be into you specifically?)
Thame smiled. "Ah, but seldom have I seen beauty like yours." (I'd prefer at least the illusion of personal interest, please.) He could see that she was a trifle unnerved, both by how perceptive and how expressive he could be.
And she had no idea what was to come.
He had been a professor of linguistics and history. Fluent in nine languages, competent in half a dozen more. It had been a key reason he'd been tapped by Greece's Central Intelligence Service. He'd translated intercepted data, dabbled in code-breaking, briefed diplomats. Things had been difficult at first, since the bulk of the CIS had a military background and retained a certain reflexive disdain for civilians - particularly academics. He'd only served the compulsory term when he'd turned eighteen.
But he'd proven himself, and frequently demonstrated the value of his encyclopedic study of military history. He'd read Sun Tsu in the original.
His career had been going well... until his immediate superior had been forced out by Papandreau and Politis in '84. He'd seen the writing on the wall and retired soon after, to found a security consultancy. He'd named it "Scylla", almost as a joke. The contacts he'd made along the way allowed him to attract some talented and experienced personnel, and given him some lucky breaks on clients.
Then, on the evening of July 22nd, 1986, came the White Event. A bright light had shone down everywhere on Earth, all at once. A few heartbeats of white-out blindness, and all had - apparently - returned to normal.
Less than two days later, he'd discovered that some things had changed a great deal. That he, himself, had been altered.
He'd felt strangely alert as he read the morning paper, perceiving subtle implications in the stories. His daughters had been somehow more expressive, more melodramatic, as they conversed over breakfast. But he had put it down to an odd mood. He'd gone in to work and almost forgotten about it.
By the afternoon, though, he'd no longer been able to deny that something strange was happening. Reviewing the Pushtun texts he'd been laboring through the day before, he found them trivial to decipher, pellucid. He grasped vocabulary and grammatical constructions he couldn't recall even studying. Profoundly disturbed, he'd gone to the university library and found some books in the Devandagari script - based on Sanskrit, a language family he'd never had the opportunity to investigate.
He could read them effortlessly. What should have been incomprehensible scribbles were bursting with meaning. He absorbed not just the words themselves, but what the author had intended to convey. He couldn't avoid it.
He explored other shelves. It was the same everywhere. He had lost the ability to misunderstand or misinterpret any text, in whatever form. He brought up pictures of Cuneiform tablets with a microfiche reader and read lists of cattle herds and bales of wheat.
At that point he sat back in his chair, almost trembling, fearing he might go mad. Or more likely, had already done so.
Behind him, two asiatic men - graduate students, clearly - were discussing a recent automotive show in their home country. And though they were speaking Indonesian - another language he'd never scratched the surface of - he understood it all, even the slang.
Panicked, he bolted upright. He tripped over the chair and fell in a sprawl. The two young men ran over. One said, in heavily accented, slightly hesitant Greek, "Are you all right?"
"Yes, I'm fine," Thame had replied.
The man's eyes widened and he smiled. "I don't hear many people speak my dialect around here!" He'd returned to Indonesian.
"I'm sorry?" Thame managed, after a moment.
"No offense, I was just surprised. Your accent is perfect, you sound like you grew up in Jakarta."
A wild suspicion flared in Thame's mind. He told them, truthfully, that he'd always had a knack for languages.
But he said it in Russian: "U menya vsegda byl talant k yazykam."
The other man smiled. "That's an amazing gift. How long have you been studying Indonesian?"
Floundering, he muttered, "Très récemment."
The first one shook his head, still using a language Thame had no Earthly reason for understanding. "I wish I had your ear. I've been here two years and I still struggle with Greek."
"Wô de zôuliâo. Dziękuję za pomoc." Thame said desperately, and fled.
"Terima kasih kembali!" (You're welcome!) chased him down the hall.
That night, Thame was silent all through dinner. He didn't need any magical powers to sense the concern his wife felt. Later, alone in their bedroom, he'd confided in her. If he was going insane, she should be warned.
When he'd finished, Portia sat quietly for a moment. Then she spoke. "I won't say it's impossible. It has happened before." She squinted at him, torn between concern and amusement. "But you are no apostle!"
His bewildered stare finally made her laugh. Still chuckling, she walked to her nightstand and withdrew her Bible. She paged through it for a few moments, then handed it to him wordlessly, pointing to a passage.
Thame read through all of Acts 2. When he finished, he looked up at her. She had always been more devout than him. It would have been hard to be less so. But now... "Am I to be a prophet, then?"
At that, she became serious. "I don't know. But you cannot deny there have been signs in the heavens!" She shook her head, slowly. "Show me this gift of yours."
He told her she was beautiful, three times, in three different tongues. By the end she was scowling, watching his lips intently. He hung there, wondering which verdict he feared more.
Almost in a whisper, she said, "It's true. I heard you speaking our mother tongue, but your mouth..."
After a while, he reached out for her. She clutched him close. Somehow even her embrace carried a message - What are we going to do?
He hugged her close, but he knew his own response was involuntarily transmitted - I don't know.
Three weeks later, he'd met Jesse, the contortionist. It hadn't been simply a matter of luck - he'd been putting out feelers for unusual phenomena. Still, he hadn't anticipated that there might be multiple different types of mutation out there. That had been another revelation. One that forced him to make a decision.
The logic was inevitable. Such abilities and traits would be too fascinating to ignore, if only for scientific research, even had they been useless. The fact that they were often useful - in cases like his own, invaluable - meant that there would be furious competition as soon as the players realized a new aspect of the old game had opened up.
There were only two obvious options. Secrecy was one - but only complete secrecy. And he had, all unwitting, given up the ability to hide. Eventually the various parties would grasp what the White Event had wrought. At that point anyone who'd showed a sudden interest in fringe ideas would be investigated. Alone, he'd be in the worst possible situation - an attractive target. Powerful enough to be worth securing, but not powerful enough to defend himself.
The other obvious course was to pick a side. If he did it quickly enough, he might secure a better deal. However, he knew from long experience that deals were only honored for as long as the most powerful side saw an advantage in it. He would become a vassal, a slave in all but name, soon enough.
There was one last path to take, not obvious at all. Risky - extremely risky. But with the head start he'd been given, perhaps just possible.
"You seem to travel pretty light," Candace said, smiling. (No special equipment, or drugs, I hope.)
He smirked, self-deprecating. "My needs are modest." (I'm not particularly kinky.)
Her head tilted just a touch, curious. "But somehow, I don't think you're a simple man." (I shouldn't pry, but you bother me a little, somehow.)
A humble shrug, still smiling. "Uncomplicated enough for tonight." (Whatever else I may be, for you I am simply a customer.)
A short hesitation. "For tonight, then." (I don't know why... but I think I believe you.)
Thame knew why. People instinctively trusted what he said. He could withhold truth; even deceive, with effort, by presenting incomplete facts. But bald lies were beyond him now, and his involuntary clarity came through to the subconscious, at least.
She sat down on the edge of the table; the way her toes flexed said, Ahh. Stupid heels.
"Are you from this area?" (You seem an intelligent girl. What led you to this line of work?) Along with the subtext, he knew, his lack of judgment would be conveyed. He asked simply from curiosity.
"I'm actually from Tennessee, but I'm attending GSU. Pre-law." (This profession isn't my life. It's a means to an end.)
"I've no doubt you'll go far." Absent his gift, the deadpan delivery might have been mistaken for sarcasm. Instead, she had no trouble reading his sincerity.
"So what brings you all the way from Greece?" (Do you want to talk - or brag - about work?)
"Just business." (I wish to actively avoid talking about work.) "I may have time for a meal or two, though. Any recommendations?" (Let's try another topic.)
"Well, there's the Sun Dial, right upstairs..." (Expensive, but if you can afford this hotel, you can swing it.)
"Perhaps something a touch more far-ranging." (I'm not looking for hotel food. I'm interested in actual local cuisine.)
"Oh, in that case... well, there's Pittypat's Porch." (Not sure how bodyguards would look there, though.) She smiled impishly. "And I'm not supposed to like it, but the Varsity by Georgia Tech has the best hot dogs." (A school-rivalry thing. But I don't take that stuff seriously.)
"The very thing." (I trust your judgment. I'll try to make time for at least one of them.)
She hesitated; then, "You really have a way with words." (How can you put all that nuance into what you say?)
"Perhaps words are overrated." (I'm wearier than you can imagine of conversation.)
She licked her lips. Here we go. "Excited, are you?" (I don't want to just hop into bed. I have to believe I'm a better class than that.)
"My time is limited, I'm afraid." (I don't think of this, or you, that way. This isn't purely about physical need.)
"Then we should make the most of it." (The customer is always right.)
"Indeed." With his eyes, his tone, he asked her to stand.
She did, gracefully. Her hands came up to the back of her neck and - with a quick glance to ensure permission - she unzipped the back of her dress. Her upthrust arms, and the arch of her back, drew attention to her bosom. Her coquettish smile acknowledged the pose's deliberateness - Artistic, isn't it?
With similar practiced ease, she smoothly pulled the dress over her head and away. Her nipples were dark, and smaller than he'd expected for such sizable endowments. They did not seem out of place, however. He felt they set things off nicely, in fact.
She angled herself as she stuck out her rump, presenting it, as she slid her panties down. Not in a tawdry way; just smoothly, theatrically. She had to bend, anyway; why not make a show of it? They slipped without a hitch past her shoes, and were set neatly on top of the dress.
He appreciated the show. Greek had its own mots justes. He didn't utter the word "callipygious", but it applied precisely. Her rear was full, smooth, rounded, robustly female. If he was going to engage prostitutes, he was glad he could budget for excellent ones.
She straightened and faced him. Her pubic hair had neat triangular borders, but was thick and lush. Elsewhere she was either shaved or naturally hairless.
This moment came, in some form, every time. The moment when the woman revealed her body fully, when she felt most vulnerable. Mixed sentiments, always. Do you like this? Am I attractive? And, But I don't need your approval. And, somewhere in the background, If only this weren't necessary...
He let his eyes say it. I like it very much indeed. You are lovely.
Her apprehension - which few would have noticed, anyway - eased. That will make things simpler. And, in the background, barely a conscious thought, Nice to know I've still got it.
A flick of his eyes, a slight quirk of his mouth - You can take off the heels.
Her Thank you was similarly carried only by eyes and lips, but she smoothly and gracefully stepped out of them. Nude, now, save for her earrings. The pause that came then said, What next? Should I give you a blowjob or a kiss?
He sat down on the edge of the bed. The invitation would have been obvious to any lady of the evening, from experience. His power could add nothing there.
She accepted it, and placed herself close beside him. She leaned in, still watching carefully. But he inclined his head and their lips came together.
She smelled of woman and perfume. He found her tongue. For now, he kept things slow and gentle; he could tell it wasn't time yet for anything too bold.
Her body inched closer, offering itself for embrace. He put one arm around her - Don't mind if I do - and her breasts cushioned up against his chest delightfully.
They broke off the kiss, mutually, and a trace of smugness lurked in her smile - Like that, do you?
She undid the buttons on his shirt, one at a time, working down from the collar. She pulled the last tucked stretch from his pants, and slid it off his shoulders. His estimate of her intelligence ratcheted up a notch as she set it on the nightstand next to the bed. She'd noticed how neatly he kept the room.
Next she pulled the undershirt up, and off. Her smile didn't change, but something in her eyes expressed, That's a relief. You're in better shape than most of the guys I've done.
A trace of a smile, a ghost of a nod. I can't afford to run to fat.
The undershirt joined his shirt. Then, in a graceful segue, she slid off the bed to her knees and removed his shoes.
Just a slight tension in her shoulders. Feet never smell all that good.
A shrug. Sadly so. A flash of teeth. Fortunately, I don't have a foot fetish.
She set shoes and socks aside, a bit more soberly than was perhaps appropriate. Her eyes met his, even as her hands met his belt. How can I understand you like this?
A shrug. My gift. Rueful twitch of the head. And curse.
His zipper was undone. I'm sorry, could you move a little? He shifted and his pants came off and went onto the pile. All that was left was his underwear.
She grinned, small but genuine. "I guess you are excited." (Got a tent pole there.)
He stood with a smile. "As if there was doubt." (And why shouldn't I be?)
She slid his underwear down. A tiny flip of her head. You'd be surprised what some guys need to get going.
He was as nude as she, now. "Mmmmm," she purred, examining his member. (Good size. Not too big, not too small. Comfortable. Clean, even.) One hand grasped gently, guiding the end into her mouth.
He stiffened, in two ways. I don't wish to finish off in this manner...
She sensed it, of course. An amused eye-roll, the odd sensation of a smile wrapped around his prick. Relax. I know what I'm doing.
A few seconds later, he gasped. "I... see your point." (That tongue is impressive.)
He was never sure, afterward, if it was his paranormal expressiveness or her own experience that told her just when to stop. She wiped off her lips with the back of her hand - somehow ladylike even in practicality - and rose off her knees.
He placed a hand on her hip. The way she breathed, the slight turning of her leg, guided his hand up her back. She didn't want him holding her behind yet.
Instead he pulled her tight, forcefully but not threateningly. One hand brushed a nipple as he nuzzled her face. One of her legs curled up, rubbed the side of his.
They kissed, and caressed each other. His erection rubbed her belly and hip, and he enjoyed that, but she - and perforce, he - didn't want to rush. Her hair smelled clean, with a hint of fruit - perhaps apple? The curls tickled his nose. For her part, she ran her hands on his back, and up the side of his leg. I don't have to pretend to like what you're doing, her open mouth said.
Surprise lurked in the corner of her eyes, in the edge of her lips, in her hesitant hands. She was amazed at the shallowness of her breath, at the goose-pimples on her skin. Being too aroused was unprofessional; the focus had to be on the client.
He smiled and gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. I know. It pleases me that you are pleased.
Her nearly-invisible blush said, Damn it, I didn't want you to see...
It was a weakness, he knew, a personal failing. In its outline, even, an everyday and pedestrian failing. Women found wealthy or powerful men attractive - advantageous, at least - so opportunity was easy to come by. And any class of men who operate on the fringes, shielded from legal oversight, will find it easy to slip from moral oversight as well. An entire branch of spycraft involved managing one's own mistresses while working to suborn those of others.
But the reasons for his particular fall from grace were unique. As a professor, the most he'd had to face was an occasional coed attempting to physically pry a better grade from him. He'd gently dissuaded them. In the CIS... analysts were not powerful. Even when Scylla had become a modestly successful security contractor he had never strayed from Portia. Flesh, even beautiful flesh, he could appreciate without having to conquer.
No, there was something quite different at the heart of it. It wasn't true that power per se corrupted. It was just that, for any man, there was a sufficient amount of power that would corrupt. And there was a side effect of his paranormality, a consequence no one deduced. The real reason he hired escorts from time to time. An entirely unexpected power he'd discovered that first night, clinging to his wife.
He, Thame Panagitis, was the greatest lover in the world.
Just a linguistics professor and military historian, really. A quiet man with only a handful of paramours, before. Not ugly, nor out of shape - he made sure his long hours behind a desk were matched by conditioning in the gym - but certainly no dashing figure. Yet, he could bring any woman willing to share his bed to ecstasy.
So he just couldn't resist.
He knew what each woman enjoyed, or disliked. At least, once the foreplay had begun. Their motions, the sounds they made, their eyes - all made perfectly clear what they wanted. They couldn't conceal the wishes of their hearts from Thame Panagitis. And he could convey - couldn't help but convey - his desires to them. Normally, sex had an element of uncertainty. But not with him.
He was no great seducer. Honesty - involuntary honesty, at least - was hardly a recipe for getting women into bed. Cajoling a woman's participation took more time than he generally had to spend, anyway. But he was a mercenary himself. He understood prostitutes.
True, he couldn't create attraction out of nothing. There had to be some spark, some glimmer of interest. One outright failure graced his past: a lesbian who'd been shocked that he could see through her act. They'd resolved it amicably; he'd even made sure she was paid.
Given just a whiff of smoke to start with, though... like an expert woodsman, he could coax it into a roaring bonfire. Few women could resist being treated precisely how they wished to be treated. This one diffidently, that one forcefully. Being caressed or kissed just so, for exactly long enough. And when a woman knows she's pleasing a man, can sense his excitement as clearly as her own...
In engineering, it was called a 'feedback loop'.
The time had come for him to slide his hand down, cup a buttock. His tongue became just a little more urgent. Her hand brushed the side of his face. I don't normally like beards. But you... use it...
They broke for a moment. He pulled her hips closer. She let out a low moan. You really want me, don't you? You're not imagining someone else...
They pulled apart slightly. He allowed his eyes to drift down to her breasts. No, indeed. She ran a hand along his chest. He was far from a muscle man, but relatively little of his body was nonfunctional fat.
He let his arm loosen slightly, let her lean back. He brought his lips to her breasts, using his tongue to circle a nipple while his beard and mustache tickled the skin around it.
"Uhhh..." she almost grunted. (Now the other one.) As if leading a dance, he guided her onto his lap as he shifted his head. She straddled one of his legs now, and his lower thigh was well-placed to stimulate her vulva when he raised his knee.
A minute or two of such diversion, and he backed off for a moment. They were both breathing heavily as her forehead rested on his shoulder. That was wild...
She raised her head, looked him in the eye. I think I'd like you inside me now.
He paused. With just his eyebrows, he asked, Would you prefer I wear a condom? It wouldn't trouble me much.
Just a moment's hesitation as she pondered. Nice to have the choice. But... She came to a decision. ...for you, no. I'm covered.
She didn't even know herself that she wanted it. Something... pure, honest. Something lovers might do, or at least two people genuinely interested in each other. Not straining for stimulation, for an experience to prod and rouse jaded appetites. Simply a man and a woman, playing the old game together. For fun.
So he didn't tickle her rosebud with a finger, didn't bend her legs back, didn't play-bite. Didn't even try to use fingers to press her clitoris. He simply guided her around him onto the bed, let her arrange herself as she chose, and moved to mount her.
The tilt of her hips, the curl of her toes - they told him how fast to proceed, and at what angle.
She might, out of pride, have withheld her climax. Not allowed him to push her to that point, seeing it as weakness - the kind of weakness no hooker could afford. A John might purchase a lease on her body. So what? Her body was not her sexuality.
But she didn't. He simply wished to take pleasure in her pleasure, not count triumph in stealing her self-control. As with anything he conveyed, there could be no mistake.
And so, again because it was her choice, she chose to let go. To let him give her that pleasure.
He bent low, still moving his hips, and gave her the gentlest of kisses. His hand ran steadily up her flanks, from hips along up near her breasts.
She bit her lip. So good, so good... She opened her eyes, looked at his face over her. One hand came up, brushed his cheek. Don't stop...
An extra-forceful thrust. I have no wish to.
Her hips pushed back at him; she moaned. Now, now...
Most of his weight on one elbow, he entwined one hand with hers. Not yet...
"Aaaah!" (Oh please...) Her calves rubbed his ass, urging him forward.
He nuzzled her ear, still moving his hips. Not quite yet...
"Oh! Oh God!" (I can't take it anymore! You have to...)
"Rrrruh!" (Now.) He shifted up and forward, just a touch, just enough to give her - and him - extra pressure in the right locations.
She screamed as they came, together, both swept away in ecstatic currents echoing back and forth between them. "Oh God! Oh God! Oh, please! Yes! Yes! Yeeeeaaaahhhh!"
He savored another of those far-too-rare moments where words matched identically with their subtext.
She curled at his side, one finger tickling his chest hair. She seemed to realize, now, that no words were needed. That her actions themselves said, Thank you.
A shift of his head, a gentle sigh. Thank you, too. It wasn't love, could never be love. It wasn't even a relationship. But there was a connection, now, a mutual recognition of humanity.
With regret, he let go of her shoulder, slowly but deliberately. I'm afraid I must get back to work.
She sat up. I'm disappointed. And she smiled as she stood to look for her clothes. Which is not how I usually feel.
His own smile said, I wish we could linger, as well. But I have responsibilities.
Candace dressed in relaxed silence. Then her eyes met his, one last time. "Good night." (I'll remember this night the rest of my life.)
He nodded, just slightly. "Good night." (So will I.) It wasn't - couldn't be - a lie.
She turned and went to the door. After she left, Stephan peered in, checking, one eyebrow raised in silent question. Everything okay?
The corners of Thame's mouth quirked up. Yes, yes, all is well. Pay her in full.
Stephan nodded and stepped back. The door closed.
He took a deep breath. It was late; it might be a good idea to get some sleep. He wanted to be on his game when he met with the potential client tomorrow. A little straightforward corporate espionage could be a refreshing change of pace.
It had been the riskiest possible choice. Taking a place at the table himself, joining the game. Gathering sufficient power to mount a credible deterrent, while at the same time becoming useful enough not to be perceived as a threat requiring neutralization.
At first it had been a race to find and recruit those special individuals the White Event had... created? Activated? Announced? For a few months, it had been easy. Intelligence types were the most skeptical people on the planet, aways wary of disinformation and hoaxes.
But even they could see reality, eventually. By now there was actual competition. They were called 'paranormal resources' or 'exotic assets' or 'extraordinary operatives' - as yet only in classified briefings.
Eventually, Thame new, the wider world would discover the Event had inaugurated a new era. Probably soon, something undeniable would happen, in front of cameras. But for now, it was being kept quiet.
His wasn't - could never be - a stable situation. He had to strike such a careful balance, juggle so many variables, straddle so many risk/benefit tradeoffs. A constant dance, staying powerful enough to be valuable, and valuable enough to be allowed to be powerful.
He'd struck that balance so far. He'd put together a... collection. 'Team' was probably too strong a term. But they worked together effectively enough, and had already accomplished remarkable things.
His eye fell on the slim case across the room. A few briefings remained. Finding new paranormals was usually time-sensitive...
Sighing, he rose out of the covers, slipped on a robe, and sat at his desk. He unlocked his briefcase and pulled out a classified report.
The CIS had been created by, and from, the CIA of the United States. For its first several years, the CIA had actually funded the CIS' payroll. Obviously ties between agencies remained tight.
Calling in favors had helped somewhat to convince his friend to pass along the occasional nugget of intel. The bribes had been much more decisive, however.
Means were irrelevant; the information was what mattered. This discussion of an escaped paranormal was highly intriguing. The dry language of an agent's transcribed account couldn't hide the fear. Not from Thame, at least.
It might be worth trying to recruit this one. Of course, he'd need at least Potiphar along. Probably George and Siegfried too, if the statements here were at all accurate... flipped over a van with his bare hands, had he?