Whatever It Takes A 750 Word Story

This story was written for the

750 Word Project 2025

. Below the line are exactly 750 words as measured by MS Word.

In Mick Herron's brilliant spy novel Slow Horses, adapted by AppleTV, a character – a good, well-meaning person – makes a decision for reasons of personal morality and loyalty to the idea of service, not to The Service. That decision is catastrophic for her, but the benefits accrue to everyone else. And I wondered – what if she made a different decision? And that was the inspiration for this, Whatever It Takes.

We'd been sitting in the Citroen for hours, smelling the wet air, steam from the pavement curling through gaps in the windows and doors, raising stale odors from the mats and seats like a detective dusting for fingerprints. Not that it was better outside, with the dumpsters filled to overflowing. Plus, of course, it was fucking pouring.

He's sitting at the wheel, face turned, watching the entrance, the stairs leading to the apartment. Half his face is in shadow, fortunately for it. The other half's blotchy, pouchy from lack of sleep and a remarkably terrible takeaway kebab, the leftover container making its own contribution to the smell.

There's a man in that apartment. Something bad's going to happen to him in a few moments. He's here to make sure it doesn't, and I to ensure it does, whatever it takes.

I've prepared for this task for weeks without knowing, just laying pipe, hoping I don't have to put something through it. Little laughs in the office. Fingering my hair when there's no one else around. My breasts brushing his shoulder as I watch his computer screen. I've turned it up tonight. Brought him coffee, carefully cooled to not scald. Spilled it on his lap, making a reason to touch him, even if it was with napkins. Facing him, not the target, in the yellow light where he can see me, making a performance of fixing my lipstick. Even took off my jacket for an excuse to wiggle my tits under his nose. Oops, the white shirt wasn't the right choice in the rain, ha-ha.

My phone buzzes silently.

"Let's just go to the Oyster."

"What, and give up all this?" He waves, encompassing the lot and the dumpsters and the whole brutal job.

"Well, yeah. If I'm going to smell garbage I'd like there to be drinks. Maybe a hot guy." Smiling, letting him know: I mean him.

"I'll have to ask my girlfriend."

"You don't have a girlfriend."

"Says who?"

"I do. You've never mentioned one."

"I'm a spy. That's compartmentalized."

"You think I've not checked? I had to make sure you weren't a plant. A honeytrap sent to seduce me into giving up my secrets."

"As I recall I started before you. Which would make you the honeytrap." Playing right into my hands.

"Mmm, you're right. Whatever would Bond do, I wonder?"

Laughing now, looking at me, not the stairs. Is there a shadow creeping up them?

"Probably seduce her on behalf of HMG."

Turning to him, hand on his leg, not being subtle. It's the first time I've touched him like this and his eyes find mine.

"Oh yeah? You think you can? She might get you."

"It's part of the training, don't you remember?"

"At least I know you're equipped for it." Dipping my eyes significantly at his groin. Is there some stirring there? Must be. It's been a long time for him. Have to keep his attention now, there's a figure at the door.

"What are –"

"Oh, shut up," I breathe, sliding my hand up his leg, grabbing hard for his rod, fumbling at the button. Kissing him like it's the last and first time for us, feeling his plump lips. He's off balance and I'm going to keep him that way. "Lean back," I whisper, husky, into his mouth, and as his seat reclines I make a noise of protest as his mouth pulls from mine. This is the most dangerous part, but he's staring at the fuzzy roof of the car as my fingers pull him clear of his zipper and slide him into the warm wet circle of my lips.

It's not a time for craft, not that I have much to draw on. I'm bobbing my head on his member, crudely coaxing his shaft with my hand, slipping the other into his slacks. Thank God there's no console to get in the way. His hands are in my hair, urging me on, demanding. We're both moaning appreciative noises. His are real, I think. Mine aren't.

He doesn't last long. I've been using my tongue and stroking him with both hands, looking raptly into his eyes, and he gasps, painting my lips and chin with his seed.

There's a pop. Might be a backfiring car, but we both know it's a gunshot. He looks down at me, knowing what I've done, and why, and loathes me for it. All I feel, I decide, is the satisfaction of a job well done.