"Remind me again why it's not Reese going undercover as a hooker?" Sameen says, adjusting the low-cut neckline of her dress.
"Because the agency does not offer the services of male escorts," Harold answers in her earpiece, not missing a beat.
Sameen makes her way through the crowd on the dance floor. The strobe light is flickering over the crowd: a neon colored ocean of human bodies. The pulse of the music is pounding in her rib cage. She glances at Reese, who is sitting at the bar and nursing a glass of Scotch, then slowly makes her way towards him, swaying her hips as much as her high heels allow. "I thought it was because you think that I'm prettier."
"It certainly wasn't because of your polite manners," Reese says. He gives her a lazy, appreciative smile that's at odds with his dry tone.
Sameen laughs coyly, like he said something amusing. "Don't worry, I'm sure that Harold loves all of his secret agent employees equally," she says in a low voice.
He turns to her, opening up his body language. It's a game designed to fool Sameen's possible new bosses in the back: the group that runs not only an escort agency but is apparently involved in human trafficking as well. If it was up to Sameen, she'd opt for just interrogating the slimy assholes until they told them about their operation and then let the whole thing blow up in their faces, but Harold is very big on collecting information and doing undercover reconnaissance first: something about avoiding not tipping them off lest they destroy any important evidence or make the abducted women disappear. Sameen is auditioning: the job interview entails seducing a new customer and taking at least one grand back to her bosses.
"I refuse to comment on this issue," Harold says. She can't tell if he's being proper or making a joke.
Sameen places a hand on Reese's arm and gives him a warm smile. “Wanna get out of here?”
Harold huffs. “I am certain that your soon-to-be employers can't hear you over the noise of the club, Miss Shaw. Just make sure that they see you leave the bar for the room upstairs and then return after an appropriate amount of time, and we should be fine.”
John plays with a shiny platinum keycard: it looks like Harold booked them one of the nice suites. Sameen is planning to raid the minibar and flip through the channels, then undo some buttons, mess up her hair and smear her lipstick. That should do.
"How long is an appropriate amount of time?" Sameen asks with a sharp grin. She leans in to whisper in Reese's ear just to mess with him. "Five minutes? Ten? How long do you need?"
He puts his hand on her naked shoulder, his fingers trailing down her arm. "You wouldn't want your bosses to think that you're not taking your work seriously," he says, his voice raspy. She wonders if he does it on purpose or if there is legitimate damage to his vocal cords. The former, probably.
"Please," she says, putting her hand on his knee and sliding it up his leg. "I could blow your mind, Reese. And other things, too."
There is the sound of pointed coughing on the line. "Harold?" Reese asks, sounding mildly alarmed. Harold probably just choked on his tea.
They get up and make their way to the elevators, Reese's arm draped over her shoulder. She giggles and leans into him. One of the men in the back gives her a sharp nod just before the elevator doors slide shut.
"There is camera surveillance in the elevator," Harold says.
Sameen smirks and nuzzles Reese's throat just to make a point. He keeps up with the game, though, pulling her close, his hands in her hair. It doesn't feel much different from sparring: she makes a move, he reacts; she presses her lips to his, he puts his hands on her hips and pulls her flush against him. Soon the kissing deteriorates into a competition, too: she bites and nibbles at his lips and he makes a little noise, licking into her mouth.
Harold is suspiciously quiet on the line, there is just the faint clattering of keys on his keyboard.
Sameen pushes Reese against the wall, puts her hands around his neck and then literally jumps him, locking her thighs around his waist. His hands slide under her legs and hold her up easily. She pulls his hair, both for show and because she wants to.
"You never told me that you wanted to fuck me," she says, just to see him flinch.
"Oh," Harold says over the comm.
"Oh what?" Sameen and Reese ask at the very same moment, while still keeping up their passionate makeout-pretense.
"There was a lot of data being streamed over the agency's servers, so I hacked the network. The firewalls were ridiculously easy to circumvent considering the --"
"Harold," Sameen growls. Reese is holding all of her weight, so she can reach down and move a hand between his legs, stroke it over his crotch. He is satisfyingly hard.
"There is video surveillance in every single hotel room, and the images are streamed directly into one of the offices," Harold says. "Apparently the owners want to make absolutely sure that their customers get, well. Excellent treatment."
"Audio surveillance, too?" Reese asks. He bends down to suck her earlobe into his mouth. She wouldn't admit that it's a turn-on even under twelve hours of elaborate torture.
"Just video. Still, under these circumstances, we should consider terminating the operation. A change of plans might be in order," Harold says.
The elevator doors open.
"I'm game if you're game," Sameen says, because she didn't dress up like a hooker only to abort the damn mission.
Reese looks over her shoulder to the hallway, then back at her, like he has to make some kind of complex ethical decision. Jesus Christ. "You wanna bang or not?" She asks, impatient, playfully biting his jaw.
She wonders if she imagined Harold's scandalized intake of breath over the line.
"Let's do this," Reese says, and they're on their way.
Reese manages to slide the keycard into the lock even while she's pinning him against the door. They stumble inside and slam the door closed behind them. In the earpiece, Harold is making a fuss about trying to turn off the video stream, typing rapidly.
"You think they'll believe me that I gave excellent customer service if their camera malfunctions at a convenient moment?" Sameen asks. She reaches behind her to unzip her dress and push it down. Reese looks at her, briefly, his gaze sweeping over her breasts and stomach and down to the pair of lace panties she is wearing, then it guiltily snaps back to her face.
She grins sharply and steps out of the dress that is pooling around her ankles, closing her hand around his belt buckle and pulling him close. "Feel free to look," she says, staring him down. "Be a good boy and I'll even let you touch."
Reese eyes go heavy-lidded when she says good boy, it's almost comical. She guesses the man didn't get laid for a while, judging by the hunger in his eyes and the erection tenting his pants.
"Do you honestly intend to go through with this," Harold says, in a tone that might be hysteria in someone else.
Sameen pushes John's jacket off his shoulders and goes to work on the buttons of his shirt, her fingers sliding under the fabric, teasing naked skin.
"It's the most efficient way to gain access to their operation," Reese says in his stupid, husky voice. Sameen opens the last button and runs her nails down his chest, grazing his nipples on the way. Reese hisses and grabs her shoulders, a little harder than before. Good.
He takes off his shirt and strips down to his boxers. Sameen unhooks her bra and slides the straps off her shoulders. "You really know how to make a girl feel special, John," she says, dropping her bra on the floor.
In her earpiece, the sound of typing has stopped. Sameen looks up and locates the little green dot of the camera inside of an air vent, hidden from view by a white plastic grid. She turns her body a little towards it. "Do you have a good view, Harold?" There is no reply. Reese is looking awkward in boxers and black socks, drawing back the comforter to reveal smooth, white sheets underneath. There is a wet stain on the front of his underwear because apparently he is every bit the excited puppy she always assumed him to be.
"I'll leave the heels on, don't you think, Harold?" She asks, barely refraining from winking in the direction of the camera. "If you have any suggestions, we do encourage audience participation here."
With that, she shoves at Reese's shoulders so he falls down onto the bed, then climbs on top of him. He has recovered a little, apparently, because he pulls her down to kiss her, one hand palming her breast. "Do you think Harold is enjoying the show?" Sameen asks, rubbing her pelvis against him. He shudders, his hips snapping up to meet hers.
"What do you like?" Reese asks. He slides a hand between them, his fingers sneaking under the fabric of her panties.
She rubs herself against his fingers, throwing her head back for show, biting her lip. Nobody can accuse her of not working hard for her money, even as a fake hooker.
There is a gasp in her earpiece that is not quite muffled by the cough that comes after. Sameen grins. "I like steak, big guns and fast cars," she says, rolling her hips against his hand so his fingertips are rubbing her clit.
She regrets keeping the shoes on, popular male fantasy or not, so she rolls onto her side and removes them along with her panties. Reese gets the message and loses the boxers: his cock is flushed and hard, wet at the tip, and he makes a little, helpless noise when she straddles him again and closes a hand around him, stroking him firmly.
Over the earpiece, something clatters, then there is the sound of muffled cursing. "Harold?" Reese asks, worried.
"There is hand lotion in the drawer and tissues are in the back," Sameen says, and Reese's eyes widen in surprise. She gives him a look that says Please. He surely must have entertained the idea that Harold was watching them with a hand down his pants.
Sameen expects Harold to make a scathing comment about her lack of professionalism or to just ignore her completely, but instead he clears his throat and says "I am very well aware, Miss Shaw, thank you. Now maybe you would like to give Mr. Reese's nipples some more attention, he seemed to enjoy that before."
Reese's eyes flutter shut at that, and for a moment, Sameen expects him to come all over himself. His hand flies to his ear, hovering over the earpiece. He really has it bad.
Sameen smiles sharply. "Sure thing, boss." She lets go of his cock and bends down to suck one nipple into her mouth, making sure that he feels the sharp edge of her teeth. Reese arches up into the touch desperately, his hands gripping fistfuls of the sheets.
She gives his left nipple more of the same treatment, getting it wet and sensitized and then blowing cool air over it, watching his knuckles turn white in a desperate grip.
"Quite impressive, Miss Shaw," Harold says, but his voice sounds a lot less steady than usual.
"Oh, you haven't seen my best work yet, Harold," she says, sliding her hand between John's legs to palm his testicles. He moans and spreads his legs, giving her better access. Interesting. "But first, I think, it's my turn."
Sameen is about to ask him to use his hand on her again when she gets the idea: she strokes her hand down Reese's stomach, the fine line of hair that leads down from his bellybutton. "Do you want him to tell you how to get me off?" She asks, and Reese whimpers.
"I think that counts as a 'yes'," Sameen says casually. "Well, Harold?"
She hears the creaking of his ergonomic chair over the line. "Mr. Reese," Harold's disembodied voice says, and Reese's hips jerk against her, seeking friction. "Let Miss Shaw sit on your face and eat her out."
Sameen finds it hard to tell what delights her more: Reese's helplessly turned-on expression or the obscene words in Harold's refined tone. She's wet and turned on and coming sounds excellent just about now, so she crawls all the way up his body without waiting for his reaction, her knees on both sides of his face, hands gripping the headboard.
“Come on, John, be good for me,” she says. He doesn't waste any time: he presses his mouth against her pussy, licking inside and sucking at her clit. Sameen sighs and rolls her hips against his face. He is good at this, eager, breathing through his nose and watching her reactions from under his long lashes.
She makes a point of moving her hips against him, fucking his face. He breathes quickly through his nose but keeps up with her, and oh, his tongue is good: she steadies herself on the headboard and gives him a rhythm to work with.
“That what you had in mind, Harold?” She asks, cursing softly when Reese finds a good spot and sucks pointedly. Her grip tightens on the wood of the headboard when she comes.
She climbs off him and falls down next to him on the bed, panting.
“Well done, John,” Harold says, and she can feel the full-body shudder travel through John, his eyelids fluttering.
“Christ, how much do you want him to fuck you?” Sameen asks, pinching his nipple to make a point.
Reese makes a needy sound and leans into the touch, and she climbs on top of him: the cameras are still on them, and as much as she enjoyed getting off, they should maybe try to keep their undercover stunt going. Reese gives her a smile that is all teeth.
“Want to sit on my cock next?” He asks, but she can see his confidence flicker: what she says about Harold and him, it gets to him. Even more interesting.
“You think you have the upper hand here, John?” Sameen asks, running a finger over his cheek. “How adorable.”
Then she moves her hand down and pushes a dry finger into him, and he spreads his legs and thrusts against her hand, precome dripping onto his stomach.
“Lubrication might be worth considering here,” Harold says, sounding dismayed.
“Don't worry,” Sameen says, rummaging around in the drawer of the nightstand for a bottle of lube. “I'm not going to break him, Harold.”
John turns onto his stomach without even being told and puts a pillow under his hips.
“You've done this before, hm?” Sameen asks. She figured, but she can't resist driving the point home.
Harold makes a noise that sounds suspiciously like a gasp.
Sameen uses plenty of lube – she was a doctor, she has seen things – but when she stretches John carefully, she can feel him pushing back against her finger, impatient.
“Just get on with it, I can take it,” he says.
“John,” Harold says, his concern dripping over the line.
“You want me to hurt you?” Sameen asks, because it's not like she's opposed on principle: it's just that she's worried that Harold might faint.
John makes a non-committal noise into the pillow. Oh no, he doesn't. He probably wants someone to make love to him, the poor puppy.
Sameen slides a finger into him all the way and he tenses up and then makes himself relax: she can't help but wonder if it's instinctual, if the last time someone did this to him it was painful when he hadn't asked for it. “It's okay, John, I know what I'm doing,” she says, patting his hip condescendingly.
“I trust you,” John says, and she stills for a moment. It's not sarcasm, it's just a statement.
She sighs and reaches under his belly for his cock with her free hand, gives him a few precise strokes that have him moaning loudly, probably more for Harold's benefit than hers.
Then she moves back to finger him, spread him slowly. He rocks back against her hand, rubbing himself off against the sheets.
“John, you look so –,” Harold starts, like he has momentarily forgotten that Sameen can hear him. He clears his throat. “You are doing very well.”
John makes a helpless noise and humps the sheets, and Sameen crooks her finger just so. “It's a shame I don't have a strap-on,” she muses.
John whines, clenching around her fingers. Over the line, she can hear Harold's heavy breathing, a proof of his loss of control.
“It is,” Harold's voice says, and John spreads his legs even wider like he's begging to get fucked.
“Oh my, Harold,” Sameen says, angling for John's prostate and making him moan, “I had no idea.”
“That I would thoroughly enjoy watching John get fucked with a ten inch dildo? Well, I would,” Harold says, sounding casual, deliberate, and that's it for John: he keens and makes a mess of the sheets, clenching around Sameen's fingers.
“Well, that is a statement, too, I guess,” Sameen says dryly.
They take turns with the shower. Sameen is glad that Reese isn't insisting on getting cuddled after, or maybe he is: she has a feeling that he is headed straight back to the library after their work is wrapped up here. Fair enough. Harold surely will make love to him all that he wants, big announcements about John getting pegged in front of him or not.
Sameen kisses John on the cheek when they part in the hallway. “You look so pretty when you're begging to get fucked,” she says, sweetly, winking, before stalking off in her high heels to drop off her pay with her new bosses.
Two weeks after they have wrapped up the case, Sameen finds a package in her apartment: nondescript, beige wrapping paper, no return address, a little bigger than a shoe box. She unwraps it and opens the box. Inside is a beautiful black leather harness, no doubt custom made, with a thick dark silicone dildo attached to it. Sameen grins and turns on her earpiece.
“It's not even my birthday, Harold,” she says.
There are sounds on the line that she can't quite place. Harold sounds distracted when his voice comes on. “Oh, it's not just for you, as you might have gathered,” he says, a little breathless.
Sameen chuckles, imagining John under Harold's computer desk, pouting up at him, sulking at the interruption. “I assume you want to watch?” She asks, touching the smooth, buttery leather.
“I'd be most delighted,” Harold says. Then he makes a little noise and says “Excuse me, Miss Shaw, I have to go.”
“More like you need to come,” Sameen mutters, and takes the harness with her to try it on.