Friday, September 16, 2005
Advance Posting Due to Popular Request
Fictional...Thursday? It seems that leaking the information that chapter four of the SpySistah Chronicles was complete has caused the throng of fans to weep and wail at the proverbial gates.

I, loving my readers as I do, have absolutely no choice but to put them out of their misery. Accordingly, here is my posting for this week's Fictional Friday. As you all know, Silk and Christina have been pushing this excellent exercise for some time. As usual, I will post and update at the bottom when the other participants post their stories about this week's inspirational pictures. My 1,000 words, and chapter 4 are below (I hope you don't blush when you read it). If you need to catch up or missed a week, the first three chapters can be found at their own links in the sidebar under Greatest Hits.

Secret Message to Silk: Go for it, honey! I'd be honored.


Samantha provocatively rolled her head back and forth on her neck to the sultry music. Her hair dragged in the sweat and dust on the stage of the German strip club. She was having difficulty balancing on just her palms and the 6 inch jet black stilettos she wore. Sometimes she really hated her job. Going undercover was one thing; but being topless, uncomfortable in clingy and sweat inducing plastic pants, and performing for a bunch of slobbering drunken perverts should mean better than hazard pay. She must really love her country.

The body oil was distracting, making her body glisten, but at least it made it harder for the more aggressive perverts to get a good hold. There was no place in her ensemble to hide a weapon, so she was stuck in a very dangerous position: exposed and defenseless. Samantha had never been good at relying on someone else for her protection, so the fact that the club had several armed agents undercover was little comfort.

The music changed, building into a more primal beat so she switched gradually to undulating and gyrating next to the pole that looked like it hadn’t seen any bleach or other cleaning agent since the dawn of time. At least being on her feet again gave her a chance to take a thorough look at the patrons/perverts.

She saw him with the group of young urban professional Arabs sitting on the left side of the stage. Mark appeared to not even recognize her and paid her performance little attention, seemingly distracted from her bounteous assets by the conversation of his friends. One of them though, paid her the compliment of grinning lecherously and motioning for her to come forward and accept his token of appreciation. The spittle on his chin and his obvious intoxication did much to suggest against approaching the degenerate, but she had a part to play, and the job came first.

She approached him sexily, hoping that was what it looked like, but doubted the fool would see it any other way than how his lust-liquored eyes desired. She went into a slow crouch, knees spread for the viewing pleasure of his table, and it garnered the attention of all five of the assembled men, including Mark.

Her slobbering admirer took out a damp $50 bill and nearly toppled over in his enthusiasm to slip it into her hot pants. The others were all grabbing for their wallets, so she stood back up from her crouch and turned away from them and bent over at the waist, giving them the grade-A view of her legs and rear. She swayed back and forth, holding onto her ankles for dear life and hoping she was giving a believable performance.

Two more of the men stuck bills to her sticky cheeks and she turned again, offering Mark the best view of her breasts. He grinned in that devilish boyish way he had and caressed the side of her breast gently with his folded $100 bill, eventually sliding it behind her ear.

She caressed her own breasts then for their edification and slid his token from her ear into her waistband. She sashayed over to another table of lecherous sots and gave them an eyeful while she desperately prayed for the music to end. Finally it did and she pouted into her final pose. The club erupted into hearty catcalls and graphic suggestions of what she should do next. She bowed and left the stage, vowing to ask for a raise.

John Cutter was waiting for her in the wings. He was impersonating a bouncer tonight, which was ironic since his British accent and wiry build was more reminiscent of an effete Lordling than a bruiser. He followed her down the austere, almost clinical, hallway with the soul-sucking fluorescent lighting, providing safe escort to her dressing room, which was doubling as the OpTech Center for this mission. John opened and held the door for her, then followed her into the room. When the door was shut behind them, she began to carefully remove each of the bills that had been stuffed into her pleather pants, careful not to destroy any possible prints on the bills.

“Dude! That was so surreal!” Jackson was the local CIA tech guy in Hamburg. “I’ve never used that navel cam before, but I swear I’ll never treat strippers the same again.”

“Did you gain an appreciation of what women go through, Jackson?” Samantha asked him sarcastically. She knew that whatever “lesson” he’d learned would be quickly forgotten by this most chauvinistic member of their cadre.

“It was disgusting the way that they looked at you – like you were a hot meal and they were starving!”

“And to think, you couldn’t even smell the liquor or feel the spittle…. Did you get all that you needed?”

“Yeah. The stills will help, as will the prints. We should know more in 6 hours or so.”

“I’m going to get into something less revealing.” Samantha moved behind the screen to wipe off the oil and pull on a short black dress.

“Hey,” said Jackson, “Don’t change on my account!” The chauvinist was back.

Fully dressed, Samantha stepped out from behind the screen. The crew was in full analysis mode, so she strapped on her thigh holsters, feeling better with her 9mms on hand. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway for a breath of air. Her legs were cramped from her attempts to cavort lustily on 6 inch heels. In an instant, she heard someone coming down the hallway. She kept walking away slowly. When the footsteps seemed on top of her, she bent down toward the wall to fiddle with the strap of her shoe. Slyly, she watched the man fade toward the exit.

She followed and found the street. The man was gone, but at the opening to the exit, on the concrete of the sidewalk, was a soft pink rose.

Only Mark could have done that.

What did you think?

Update:

Silk posts a story rich in detail and description that sadly ends too soon.

Dawn posts a gritty story with a twisted ending.

Nugget's story ripped me raw. It is a well-written tale of a simple mistake gone horribly wrong. Unfortunately, it is all too lifelike for me.

posted by Phoenix | 7:46 AM


>5 Comments:

At 2:41 PM, Blogger amelie said...

Well done, lady!

I hope, I hope, I hope, that tomorrow's pictures are inspirational; I want to know what happens next!

You've really got a flair for this, you know. : )

 
At 9:50 PM, Blogger VARepublicMan said...

Perfect set up for next week. (and we even had a week without a gunfight! =;^)

 
At 8:40 AM, Anonymous Christina said...

Pardon my use of the vernacular, darling: Effin A!

; )

 
At 8:48 AM, Anonymous silk said...

Bloody nora woman, you rule. Seriously you just rule. I can't wait to get these links up in the side bar when I get home. Thank you! x

 
At 9:53 AM, Anonymous Nugget said...

I'm hooked :o)

And the body count this week was a big, fat zero! Make up for it next friday?

 

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