Every time I see her I am reminded of a high-priced whore who has grossly overestimated her worth in the marketplace. It is not a particularly genteel thought, but I have never made a claim of gentility. That she is now considered a part of the Consortium is an insult to those of us who have earned our positions here through effort, ingenuity and well-executed covert operations. This obscene trollop has gained access to one of the most rarefied circles in the world by keeping her legs open and her mouth shut; her only reliable skill is her ability to take direction.
Now that she has been accepted within our organization, it is left to me to mentor the bitch. It is a task I find distasteful in the extreme. If there were some way I could pass her off to Mr Skinner, I would not hesitate. However, I suspect that even he would balk at the task. And being the paragon of virtue that he is, Mr Skinner has been quite clear about drawing the line at murder. Regrettable as this one inconsequential extermination would afford him countless freedoms.
I am compelled to report that the blond hair is not genuine and is as artificial as her nails and her pompous lisping accent. Where ever she sits, in the car, in the library, in the dining hall, she leaves a trail of brittle, black-ended strands that, coated with countless layers of hair spray, stick to whatever surface is available. It is disgusting. Twice now, I have found my gorge rising at evidence she preceded me for a meal.
Moreover - that she is singularly privileged to receive my tutelage is utterly beyond her comprehension. If it is not insult enough that I must mentor her, this rare honour is unhappily received. The revulsion she has for me is matched only by my contempt for her. Her ignorance of me - of who and what I am - is astounding and she has erred in her critical assumptions about the scope and depth of my influence. Stupidly, she fancies herself my match and has acted on her own volition against me. I have discovered through covert sources that she has even attempted to undermine my position, proffering her commonplace talent as her single bargaining chip in exchange for freedom. I took great pleasure in interrupting the transaction, but only after she had rendered her services to one of my colleagues.
If nothing else, it taught her a lesson of obedience. Mercifully, I found myself quite free of her for a week and when she returned, she presented herself in a contrite, conciliatory fashion. We worked together several times, she ever at my elbow observing, learning as we proceeded with the small pox tests in South Carolina. After making contact with Mr Skinner and realizing him to be much closer to the truth than expected, she wasted no time contacting me in a panic. I had something she wanted - advice, reassurance. More importantly, I had the power to decide the ultimate course of action.
And this is the key. My power appeals to her and she hates herself for it. She finds it irresistible that I can whisper a few words in someone's ear and have my will done. If I wish it, people die. Governments fall. She wants that kind of power. Mine mesmerizes her and she will do anything to get it. Once again, I am privy to the price of another hapless soul. It delights me to know that I have found her weakness for now I can prey upon it at my leisure.
Recently, I was unavoidably required to call on her late in the evening and found her wrapped in white satin - truly one of the most gruesome and ironic costumes I have seen her wear. She did not appreciate my leer and her ego interpreted it as the carnal interest of a needy older man. When she approached, she crossed her arms to hide her fulsome breasts. The sudden modesty made me sneer.
"You have nothing I have not already dined on." I blew smoke in her face, taking my time with the words. "You have my assurances you cannot possibly interest me. My tastes are too refined." Like all women, the most provocative words are those of rejection and distaste, and like all women, she had no desire for me until I dismissed her as undesirable. Her face betrayed a pinched frown of hurt pride and surprise. It is quite possible she thought me beyond having sexual desires.
Upon further consideration, I realized I had an excellent opportunity to exploit my position with her. Certainly well-thought of as a woman of varying morality, she could be of service to me. It was possible, in fact, for me to provide her an illusion of having power and in exchange, I would have the entertainment of watching another marionette dance to my slightest whims. Even better, it served a dual purpose - for her; unavoidable humiliation and for me; a trifling yet mildly pleasant diversion.
Our first assignation was in the dining hall. It has long been an observation of mine that, after a meal, colleagues sit back in their chairs and sigh deeply. It is a peculiar habit; one that I find amusing and telling. It is as if they have positioned themselves for sex in recline. The more I noticed it, the more I fantasized about the possibility but never had an opportunity to experiment. That is, until now.
We entered together, she leading in a tight low-cut sheath that revealed to all who cared to look even cursorily, that she wore no underclothing. It is cliche, I know, but I requested it more for appearances than my personal gratification. She does have the eye of several of the others in the Consortium and I am not above enjoying the moments when they look at me with unbridled jealously. Indeed, I have often reminded them that there is very little fair in this world, not even within the Consortium. Yet I always manage to exact my unfair share. It is a secret victory I guard vigorously.
We were seated at my usual quiet table by one of the windows. The hall was half full with patrons with others continuing to arrive in twos and threes. The ivory and dark green table cloths dipped almost to the floor and center pieces of fresh flowers dotted the room with muted colour. Fine bone china and heavy filigreed silver settings lay beneath fans of white linen tucked in crystal goblets.
We were served promptly and ate in relative silence; she less heartily than I. In fact, I inquired after her appetite, remarking on how she seemed to pick at her food. She seemed unsettled and resentful of the question.
After dessert, I ordered coffee and she did likewise. When the cups were poured, I stirred in the cream with slow deliberate turns. Under my unwavering stare, she likewise creamed her coffee but stirred with a nervous jangle. Patiently, I waited for her to finish.
"Drop your spoon." I said to her, once she had clattered the silver to the saucer.
She looked startled and glanced over her shoulder at the room now almost full of patrons. When she turned again to face me, she was pale.
"Drop your spoon." I repeated, removing the napkin from my lap and tucking the fabric under the saucer. With a well-studied sigh, I slowly sat back exactly as I had seen my colleagues do so many times before. Once again, I waited.
She set the spoon to her right and very discretely swept her hand against the silver. The spoon dropped with a muted thump. Gradually, she stooped in her chair and finally knelt on her hands and knees, disappearing from view. I surveyed the room. No one had noticed. The music played. Silver clattered against fine bone china.
Earlier, I had informed her of my expectations deliberately using vile, agressive langage. I spoke calmly, almost serenely, and clarified my demands in detail that no one could misunderstand. Quite expectedly, I watched the blueness of her eyes fade in revulsion as she began to fully comprehend my orders.
Now, without a signal from me to halt, she proceeded as I had instructed. I heard the rustle of the taffeta indicating she had disappeared under the table. The sound inspired anticipation and unexpectedly quickly, I felt my loins begin to pool with blood. I uncrossed my legs and rested my thighs against the arms of the chair. Placing a finger in the ashtray, I drew the crystal skimming forward over the smooth table cloth.
She began at my knees slowly working her fingers in a circular motion towards my groin. I leaned back in my chair slightly and removed the matches from the ashtray. Casually, I turned it over and read the inscription on the coat of arms and took a moment to exercise my Latin for the translation. The words were tired and trite. It did not really matter; other things garnered my attention - namely an erection pressing against well-rehearsed but uninspired hands. She stroked downwards several times before I began to squeeze my knees against her, providing her an impetus to continue. Quite deliberately, she brushed against my penis in an effort to undo my zipper.
Casually, I opened the lapel of my jacket and removed a package of cigarettes. From the far door, a colleague waved to me. I returned the salutation and he went on to join three others already seated and waiting for him.
She held my penis in her hands and I could feel her breath along the shaft as she leaned forward to gently kiss the tip. She lingered, delicately touching her tongue to me in moist deft motions.
I placed the cigarette in my mouth, slowly turning the filter in mytongue to moisten it. A grain of tobacco fell to my lips and I pinched it away as I set the cigarette to my mouth. Reaching for the match book, I flipped open the cover and bent a middle match before my focus once again turned inward.
Her mouth was around me, her teeth slightly grating against the shaft, forcing a brief shiver across my shoulders. Gradually, she increased the pressure of her tongue and began a strong tight pull that ended only to pull again. I fought to concentrate beyond the carnal effects of the repetition and escalating tension.
I tore off the match and noticed a slight tremor in my hand - evidence of the final intense moments before my release. The power of her mouth was fierce. Willing my actions, I struck the light with a single hard stroke. The sulfur ignited and was consumed by a growing flame. Her tongue wrapped around the end of my penis, then she surrounded me once more with a warm wet mouth. I cupped the tip of the cigarette, touched the flame to the tobacco and inhaled deeply. She drew against me one last time. My orgasm occurred a moment later and lasted until I deposited the spent match in the ashtray. In languid satisfaction, I closed my eyes and let the smoke seep out of me. There was a motion between my legs and I caught her with my knees before she could flee.
"Put it back," I said quietly but loud enough that she could hear. After tucking me in, she redid the zipper and only then did I release her. When she returned to her seat, I viewed her overly made-up face with a critical eye and noticed there were traces of me around her mouth.
"Wipe your chin," I said, sitting back and crossing my legs. I drew another long breath on my cigarette as I watched her mutely obey me. As I have noted earlier, her single genuine talent is her ability to take direction.