The goth-punk girl just looks back, though Ilona’s body language indicates wanting. She sets the folder down, but instead of doing so to distance it from herself, she opens it, going through the slim contents again.
“You’ve got information here about the human trafficking and forced sexual slavery of young women being brought into this city,” she begins, “And not just that, but information suggesting the police know about it. I presume this means they are turning a blind eye to it, if not outright helping, but that would be in the other information you’ve yet to share with me, hmm?” she looks upward toward Therese, eyebrows again raised, her face still mostly angled down toward the open folder, and when she gets no verbal response, she continues, “Information that this vigilante is actually focusing efforts on stopping the human trafficking, and here is where it gets really good, that the police are fabricating evidence against the vigilante to stop these efforts against the criminals.” She finally breaks physical contact, sitting back in her chair and moving away from the desk with the momentum, “Wow, Therese. This … this is … insane.”
“It’s all accurate,” Therese flatly declares.
“I don’t doubt that,” Ilona states, “Your information is always good. Anytime we’ve peer reviewed you, you’ve come out spotless. I mean this whole … thing is insane.”
Again, another stretching moment of silence. The petite girl just sits there, shielded in her layers of clothes, make-up, attitude, saying nothing, just looking at the other.
“Okay,” she nods, moving forward again, leaning over her desk, placing her elbows down atop it, hands clasped, and Therese recognizes this as a thinking position of the other woman’s, good, “You’ve brought this to me for a reason. What do you want me to do with it?”
“I’ve got more,” she says.
“Yes, I’m sure you do,” Ilona quickly speaks on the heels of those words, eyes widened, head nodding.
Therese just stares for a moment, but it proves clear that Ilona is now willing to wait longer, or if necessary, end the meeting entirely.
“And I can get even more.”
“Okay,” more nodding, , “And then what? What’s to be done with this information. Who’s the client here, Therese?”
“I think this information should be given to someone who cares or could make a difference.”
Ilona’s eyes narrow slowly as she peers, the moment lingering. She eventually closes them, pulling in a slow, contemplative breath, then she opens her eyes again.
“Forgive me, Therese, and I am not trying to insult you, I’m just not used to seeing you so … worked up over something like this. You don’t exactly strike me as a social crusader.”
Therese just sits there, staring.
“Who, then?” the P.I. demands, though she takes some of the edge off the question, “This information is rather potentially damning to the police.”
“The media, Internal Affairs, the Office of the Interior,” Therese begins a dangerous list.
“The Office of the Interior!” Ilona raises her voice for the first time since this excitable engagement has begun. “Therese, are you trying to get yourself killed?”
“Someone has to care about this,” she mutters.
Ilona calms, sighing.
“Yes, yes, someone does,” she admits, then offhandedly, even gesturing casually with her right hand toward the open file, “It seems the vigilante does,” then as though struck with a moment of revelation, Ilona freezes in place for a moment, then angles her eyes at the hacker. “Do you know who the vigilante is?”
“No,” comes Therese’s clipped response.
Ilona more openly studies the other, leaning forward slowly as she scrutinizes. “You are either lying, or you are upset that you don’t know that information,” she postulates, but she does not push further in that regard, sitting back into a more relaxed repose. “Okay, so why involve me, Therese? You can just put together your package, gift wrap it, and deliver it to all those places.”
“I need more.”
“Okay, so go get it. Isn’t that what you do?”
“Not just electronic information.”
And this brings another moment of silence, this one heavier. Ilona again studies the skinny young woman, and her jaw flexes as her teeth press together.
“No, Therese, no.”
“Why?” the hacker demands, speaking the word calmly, slowly, drawing it out to fill it with greater weight.
“This is seriously dangerous,” Ilona responds, “You are talking about investigating professional criminals and potentially corrupt policeman. You know I used to be in law enforcement, and you partially know why I left it. There’s also a reason my little practice here is limited to what we do.
“I don’t want any part of this,” she concludes, seeming to have to steel herself to make this statement.
And again, Therese just stares.
After a sufficient time of this awkward silence, she rises and quickly leaves the woman’s office, disappointment, even some disgust, obvious on her generally aloof features.
*****
The music is loud in here, but not so loud as to eliminate the possibility of talking, so long as the participants in the conversation are in sufficient proximity. These two here in the dark booth have no trouble with being close to each other. The place is called simply The Garden, an ultra lounge, a place in between a bar and a nightclub, though it does have a small dance floor, currently unoccupied. It is a place meant to cultivate a particular feel, what with the wavy, deep tones of the electronic music, not too slow or too fast, the darkness weaving throughout the place to be interrupted by a deep, inviting blue that rises up in spots that need more illumination – the bar, the foyers of the restrooms, the entryway, some brighter, white lamps hanging down, their cones more precise to give further luminance to areas that have such need. The clientele looks polished and well-dressed, some might even say chic, but the two at the dark, secluded booth only have eyes for each other.
She is wearing a satiny-looking shirt, the collar and cuffs of which are a lighter tone than the creaminess of the blouse, a stiffer form even, giving prominent accentuation. The shirt is unbuttoned enough to give a tempting glimpse of her cleavage, the view of which he has graciously partaken. Her skirt is black, quite short, stopping at her mid-thigh, her legs bare as they end, enticingly, in her black, high-heel pumps. Her red hair is out in all its vibrancy, matched only by her glittering eyes which appear to take on many different shades depending on how they catch the available light in this place.
He is garbed in all black, his French-cuff shirt also showing an open neck, the collar widened from the lack of fastened buttons at the top. His cufflinks are silver wrapped about ruby, though the gems, somewhat subtle in their presentation, appear generally black in the dimly lit establishment. The dark trousers are simple in their elegance, ending in a narrow cuff over his buffed, black leather shoes. She smiles at him, running a hand over his left ear.
“What are you thinking?” he asks as she sits there, grinning gently, eyes moving away to survey the place, her left hand about her glass of scotch.
She sets her eyes back on him.
“I’ve been living here for two years now, and I have seen more than I ever have of the city’s nightlife in the past few weeks because of you, a visitor.”
“I hope that’s a good thing,” he smiles.
“It is,” she smiles in return.
“Is this place not to your liking?” he pursues, picking up his drink, turning to look out at their environ as he sips of the cocktail.
“Oh, it’s fine,” she says, “Very nice, just … not my usual thing, really,” then she looks back at him, smiling warmly. “It’s nice being here with you.”
He turns his face back to her, giving her a similar expression, “Thank you, and likewise,” he returns, then leaning in to bring his lips to hers.
She meets his readily, their kiss slow, lingering, savoring, as they move their lips
over each other’s, feeling the softness, the simmering touch. He gazes upon her as it stops, pulling back.
“Did you have anything specific to tell me?”
She looks at him, inquisitively, “Uhm,” she ponders, “The scotch here is good.”
He shakes his head slowly, “I meant about the task I gave you.”
“Oh,” she blinks once, then her eyes are held in an open state upon him, and though it is dark, he feels certain she is blushing; she licks her lips, drawing the bottom in with the tip of her tongue, holding it beneath her teeth, giving a gentle bite, and her eyes shift in a barely perceptible movement to fix fully on his. “I did my secret mission,” she whispers.
His grin increases, “Secret mission,” he all but tastes the words as they emerge from his mouth, “I like that. Tell me about it, please. How did it go?” and he punctuates his bid with a further taste of his drink, eyes yet upon her.
She somewhat retreats into herself, her bashfulness coming forth, her shoulders rising up slightly, going inward, her arms coming to her sides, chin angling down. He keeps looking at her, warm, open, his left hand going over to gently stroke behind her shoulder, touching soothingly with his fingertips.
“I did as you asked of me,” she says, glancing up at him at the end of her sentence. “I went into the bathroom at work,” she continues, looking away, then back, as she speaks, “I … touched myself … uhm, starting at my neck.” As she says this, he moves his hand over, extending his index finger to gently touch at her throat; she grins, showing a bit of her teeth, looking at him as she continues, “Then I … moved my hands down and stroked over my inner thighs.”
“How did it feel?” he gently interjects, still moving his fingers lightly at her neck.
She moves her eyes, her smile growing as her lips press together, her shoulders coming up again. “It felt nice. I imagined it was you doing it.”
He nods, slowly, encouragingly.
“And then I played with myself, and that felt really good, and I slipped my hand inside my panties, since I didn’t want them to get too wet, I didn’t have another pair at work with me, and … I …” She glances at him, her grin again rising with her embarrassment. “I played with myself more, and … I had to stop or else I would cum.”
“But you didn’t?” he checks.
“No.” She looks at him, shaking her head, “You said not to, not without permission.”
He grins warmly, leaning in to give her a nice, short kiss on the mouth.
“You did very well,” he says. “Thank you.”
She basks in this, smiling more openly, feeling wanted, sexy, settling in more comfortably. They sit there for a moment, taking in the place, ensconced in their sense of privacy within the darkness and the somewhat buffering effect of the music. She turns and sees that he is looking at her, and she meets his eyes.
“Did you like doing something I asked you to do?”
“Yes,” she nods once.
“Would you like to do more?”
“If you want,” she offers, openly, and as he continues looking at her, his grin twists subtly into something suggestive, and she averts her eyes, smiling coquettishly.
“I do want,” he says, his eyebrows barely rising up, slowly, as he continues looking at her. “I want you to do two things for me,” he says, and she looks fully upon him, expectant, even perhaps anxious. “Remove your panties.”
She just looks back at him, eyes on his, and she pulls in a slow breath.
“Okay,” she agrees, “Do you want me to go into the-?”
“Here,” he says, still wearing that subtle curl to his lips, “I doubt anyone will notice.”
Her eyes lightly stretch their sockets, but with a movement about of those same, checking her immediate surroundings, she gets to the task, worming and squirming quite deliciously as she manages to work her dark underwear out from under her short skirt. She holds a closed fist out to him, the barest hint of the lacey garment peeking out at the sides as she offers it.
“Just set them on the table,” he says, and though she seems again a bit reluctant, bashful and blushing, she does so, setting the panties down there, and they partially unravel, the dark, suggestive pile of fabric now sharing a small space with their drinking glasses.
She moves her hips and thighs, trying to get comfortable again, smoothing her skirt, perhaps feeling the sensation of her nudity beneath the short item. His grin grows as he watches, feeling also another sort of stirring inside himself.
“Thank you, my dear,” he says.
“What was the second thing?” she asks, still looking somewhat awkward but also obviously eager.
He slowly looks out onto the area, commenting, as though giving a casual notice, “The dance floor looks neglected.”
“You want to go dance?” she asks, and he knows she likes such activity, but she shows some measure of embarrassment at the idea of the two of them taking the floor alone.
“No,” he says, then he moves his steady gaze back to her, “I want you to go out there and dance, by yourself, but dance for me, know that I am watching. I want you to entice me with this. You are to dance with no one else, just alone, for me.”
She appears to have frozen in place, looking up at his face, eyes open, though not stretched, just unblinking, as she absorbs the bid. He begins to wonder if she will refuse.
“Oh,” she finally says, then, “Uhm,” eyes moving to the small, empty floor, then back to him, “For how long?”
“One full song,” he says, and she nods slowly. “Or longer if you wish. If I think you are out there for too long, I’ll come fetch you.”
She looks at him, the idea of staying that long not even a consideration for her. He takes her right hand, squeezing it, and she offers him a bashful smile. He then leans in, whispering to her.
“Put everyone else out of your mind,” he suggests. “This is just for us, just us. Just think of yourself and me watching you. You’ll do fine.”
She nods, and he can tell she is obviously nervous. And it seems the current song ends all too soon for her, but she gives him a glance and then courageously slips out of the booth and walks over to the floor.
He watches, noting the shift of her trim hips, even as she shows somewhat stiff from her anxiousness. There are not that many people in here, as the evening is yet young, but she does get a few notices as she covers the short distance to the area designated for dancing. It is not yet obvious, of course, what she intends, but she is attractive enough to garner looks merely from her presence.
He notes a change in her cadence as she takes a few steps within the barrier created by the different look of the dance floor, not going too far in, keeping this place somewhat close to the edge, and then as she plants her feet, she begins to sway in place, mainly moving her hips as she warms up. He brings his glass up, sipping of it, his eyes on her, hungry. She lets herself get lost in the music, moving about sinuously, raising her chin, her long, red locks falling down her backside. She moves her head slowly, causing her hair to sway, catching the light, adding to her charming dance.
She turns in place, and he sees her eyes are closed. She brings her hands inward then, having extended her arms, bent, fingers out, waving gently on thick currents in the air, but now she places them on the sides of her face, low, aside her jaw, then slowly glides them down, tracing over the contours of her shape, turning her wrists as she moves them over the top of her chest and outside her bosom, down over her ribcage, then out.
And then she opens her eyes, and they catch his as sure as any lure. Her lips are just barely parted, he can see from here, and her heart is hammering in her chest, though she does not falter from her enticing dance, continuing to move her body in a way designed to elicit arousal from him.
She brings her feet closer together, planting them firmly, the motion of her body like a waving slither, shoulders moving in the alternate direction of her hips, all of it slow, hypnotic. He spares enough awareness to note that some others hav
e now taken notice, and it seems some of the women are showing some interest in also moving to the dance floor, some bidding of their companions, some perhaps ready to venture out alone.
He returns his focus to her, noting as she widens her step, her skirt riding up just slightly, not nearly enough to threaten to reveal her lack of panties, but it still thrills him all the same to know. Her back now to him, she arches, perking that lovely, firm rear of hers in his direction, moving it slowly side to side, a tempting invitation, and then the song bleeds away, dissolving into another, and she stops, looking around, a shy smile on her lips as she regains awareness of her surroundings, and she walks back over to their booth.
She slides in, gracefully, moving over until their hips touch, and he envelopes her in his left arm, and she snugs in quite readily. He gives her a kiss, exchanging a smile with her.
“Very nice, my sweet Lily,” he says. “Very enticing.”
“Did you like it?” she asks, looking up into his eyes.
“Oh, very much so. You arouse me to no end.”
She grins further at this, and they resolve back into enjoying their company, the drinks, their continuous flirtations, touching, kissing, all part of the simmering play and build-up for the evening’s culmination when they return to his hotel suite.
Chapter Eleven
He’s seen stars before when he’s orgasmed, if it proved a particularly powerful one. In truth, he’s experienced visual distortion and various nerve stimuli associated with the tension of muscles, restriction of respiration and flow of blood in his body. Still, during those more amazing moments, he feels like he’s gone out of body, seen things, had his mind blown. The girl at work between his legs is about to send him into one of those.
He’s had blowjobs before, many of them, paid for many of them, just like this one. He’s never used this girl before, but there was something about her that pulled him in, and she seems very eager, very into it, and he is feeling it. It is amazing. Her experience and expertise is undeniable, like a hot stoking that travels through his loins, fermenting at the base of his spine.
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