That's always how it started. No matter what minor offense she committed -- be it not getting everything on the grocery list or failing to send the Ball Busting Bitch our daily report on time -- whenever she said, "I'm sorry agent Alpha," I knew what she really wanted was a spanking. Followed by a tongue lashing (the literal variety). Which eventually lead to me shoving something phallic shaped up her clean-shaven pussy. Consistently leading to one or more back-arching, toe-pointing, nipple-hardening orgasms.
I didn't mind satiating Sixty-nine's unusual carnal desires every evening, knowing full well that I wasn't allowed to use her to satisfy my own needs. I had a town full of women at my beck and call for that purpose. Although I was a bit worried about where our relationship was headed. But the nightly exercise not only made Sixty-nine a much more pleasant companion, it also did wonders for her self-confidence. So, for the sake of the mission, I continued to molest the young lady's shapely body, hoping a better solution would eventually surface.
Meanwhile, as I honed the skills taught to me by Mrs. Bancroft so many years earlier, Flanagan was learning the art of blackmail from the local master. By the time the week was over, Raven Hardwood, with Flanagan's willing cooperation, had either discovered or manufactured sufficient dirt on each city council member to make them commit murder. Specifically, Miss Moorehead's murder.
Despite everything else on our plate that week, we also spent a good amount of time choreographing the demise of Janis Moorehead.
"It is imperative that Miss Hardwood, Mayor Stuffit and the entire Merryville city council believe they have a hand in killing Miss Moorehead," I told Flanagan during an evening strategy session. "The threat of a murder conviction is the only way we're going to convince them to sell out their town."
"How do you plan on doing that? Give each one of them a rifle, line Janis up against a wall and yell 'Ready, Aim, Fire'?"
"Not a bad idea, if I really wanted Miss Moorehead dead. But I'd much rather she survived the experience."
"Why?" Flanagan asked. "We've been told the entire town is expendable. Why risk the success of the mission to save one person out of thousands?"
"I happen to like this one person," I said. "I'd miss her if she were gone."
"Since when did our personal feelings have an ounce say on who we killed? Besides, once we're done with this job, you'll never see her again. Just like all the other women you've used."
"Do you think we should let the council kill her?"
"Hell no. I like her too. But if we screw this up and the mission goes wrong because we let Janis live, the Ball Busting Bitch will turn us both into eunuchs."
"Then we better come up with a fool proof plan," I said. "And Miss Moorehead can't know about it."
"We're going to pretend to kill the woman in front of the town leadership and not let her in on it?"
"We don't have any choice. The council, the mayor and especially Miss Hardwood must believe they killed her ... no doubts in anybody's mind. I don't think Miss Moorehead is a good enough actor to pull that off. She has to think she's being killed and then look dead."
"I'm assuming you or I can't be there to help."
"Correct."
"How about Sixty-nine?"
"Definitely not. But I think we can get Miss Hardwood to help us."
"I thought she was supposed to think she killed Janis."
"She will. But later."
"You're not making a lick of sense," Flanagan said.
I explained my plan and watched as my lifelong friend's doubting demeanor turned into a conspiratory grin.
"It's risky," he said when I finished. "Ordinarily I'd say it wouldn't work. But Raven's hatred of Janis goes so deep, we might be able to pull this off."
***
Four days before Miss Moorehead died, Flanagan found the perfect place to bury her body. It was a forty-acre pasture located thirty miles north of town. The farmer who previously owned the land had been dead for over a year. Several of his grandchildren were fighting what promised to be a long and protracted legal battle for rights to the acreage. It was several miles off the nearest paved road and surrounded on three sides by tall stands of poplars. The only building on the property was an ancient wooden shed that looked like a significant breeze would topple it to the ground.
We spent the next three days digging the grave, buying a coffin and then making the necessary modifications to both the grave site and coffin. All the while, Flanagan helped Raven Hardwood collect blackmail material on the city council and I continued buying houses with Miss Moorehead.
It wasn't easy being with Miss Moorehead for most of the day and not divulging our plans for her. I stuck with my cover story. I was a well-financed real estate speculator who liked buying houses almost as much as I enjoyed pleasing women. Despite my best efforts to keep Miss Moorehead off my list of conquests, there was something about the lady I just couldn't resist.
The first time I stepped over the line was at a house on Uranus Ave. I readily admit that I had no qualms about what I did to the lady of the house. The woman was so desperate to sell and leave Merryville, she essentially offered her body to me the minute we walked in the door. And I took it ... Not necessarily in the hole she initially had in mind, but she got a good price for her house and a new life experience out of the deal.
Somehow in the process of negotiating the price of #2 Uranus Avenue ... after I satisfied the homeowner sexually but before I wrote her a check ... I found myself on a bed with a raging hard-on staring down at Miss Moorehead's exquisitely naked rear end. Despite my best intentions, I ended up balls deep in Janis' ass and unable to extract myself until I squirted a load of DNA laden semen into her lower digestive tract.
This was bad for two significant reasons. First off, the Ball Busting Bitch told me to not spread my semen amongst the local populace. She didn't say I couldn't fuck anybody (except Sixty-nine). I just wasn't supposed to cum. Since Alek Popov was offering a huge reward for a sample of my semen, I needed to be careful about where it went. Not that I thought Miss Moorehead would sell my DNA to the Russian mafia but, according to Flanagan, Janis was trying to get a sample of my sperm to see if it matched that of the man who blind folded her, tied her down to a bed and then had his way with her the day after we met (which was Flanagan). She kept the cum stained sheet and, as soon as she got what she knew was a verified sample of my DNA, she planned to send both samples out to a lab to see if they matched.
Yeah, it's complicated. Way more convoluted than any op should be.
The gist of it all was that if Flanagan's or my DNA somehow got into any public medical record system, Popov might find out. Which would be bad because the well-connected Russian mob boss had a "shoot on site" order for whoever matched the foreign DNA that came out of his wife's, daughter's and housekeeper's bodies.
Despite all of the above, my main concern about accidentally sodomizing the good-looking blonde realtor was that it was the wrong thing to do. She was a genuinely good person ... one of the very few I met in my line of work. Except for Amanda Zimmerman (Mrs. Bancroft's first London maid), Miss Moorehead was the only woman I considered a possible soul mate. Shoving my overly excited cock up her ass was not the best way to start that relationship.
The house at #2 Uranus was the last house I bought with Miss Moorehead. That was the day before Janis was scheduled to die. I knew this because we had Mayor Stuffit's phone bugged.
Miss Moorehead and I had dinner together that evening at the fanciest restaurant in town ... The Sharper Knife ... which was the favored eatery of the mayor and city council. With a little help from the Company's tech wizards, Flanagan transformed the dolphin entangled pearl necklace that I stole from Popov's wife into a microphone. I gave the necklace to Miss Moorehead at dinner, in full view of at least three council members. Further proof that she was on my side and therefore scheming against them. In retrospect, rubbing it in their faces may not have been a good idea, but who knew that small town politicians would be so nasty.
Later that evening, I met Miss Moorehead in her apartment to prep her for her next morning's meeting with the city council.
Still dressed up from dinner, she let me in the door, offered me a drink and then sat on her couch. I sat next to her and placed two small boxes between us.
"Before you open your gifts, we need to have a little discussion," I said.
"Is there something in those boxes I'm not going to like?" she asked.
