Ghostly Writer
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The New Job - 3
🕑 Added 2025-02-02 16:00:06 +0000 UTCThey don’t panic, to their credit. At least, not that I can hear. I can imagine, though.
It takes a few hours - after I’ve fake worked some more, left the building for lunch and come back - before they have a game plan for me. The voice in my ear changes to someone else, someone I’ve not spoken to before, but the handover checks out. They’re legit.
“Here’s the updated mission briefing,” the new voice says. It’s a woman. Sounds older than I’m affecting. “We need you to find out who, exactly, is impersonating Gagliardi - and more importantly, why.”
“Okay,” I say slowly. “How do you propose I do that? Walk in there and ask her?”
“Obviously not. We’re going to deploy some extra field equipment. It’ll be waiting for you when you get back to the safe house.”
They meant Ms Chopra’s apartment, which was part of the package deal.
“You’ll be briefed further there. For now, keep your head down.”
“No way I’m getting this fine ass in trouble,” I assure them. The woman clicks off, and my previous husky handler returns. I have to admit, I sort of missed him.
“Everything else okay?”
“Yeah. Are you guys worried I’m being watched, by the way?”
“We’ve checked. You’re good, which is helpful. That said, don’t do anything crazy when you’re in the office.”
“Don’t worry,” I say. I pull a compact from my purse, check my makeup - and give him a good look at my face. “I’ll save that for when I get home.”
///
I clock out on time, or at least, when we’re supposed to officially finish for the day, collect my things and head out. After a minor frisking and check that I haven’t loaded my bags with secret ledgers, I’m free and clear.
After a quick cab ride I enter an apartment I’ve never lived in, and only seen until recently in photos and video. I’ve studied it, so even though it doesn’t feel like my place, I know the layout and feel comfortable in it.
“Home sweet home,” I mutter.
The voice in my ear chuckles. “Don’t get too comfy. You won’t be here forever.”
“Story of my life. Another opening, another show….”
“The new equipment is in the hallway closet.”
I open the door to see a black case. I’m intrigued what might be inside, but I’ve got other things on my mind. See, the problem is, I’m horny as hell.
It’s an occupational hazard, really. Spending your days (and often nights) cocooned inside the body of a (usually) beautiful woman takes its toll. Mentally, sure, it can be taxing. It’s more of a stress on the ol’ sex drive, though. I tend to spend at least the first few days of any mission desperate to get fucked - or to fuck myself. More than once I’ve taken time out from a mission to drop by some bar, find a willing man and allow him to fuck me stupid in the restroom, or maybe just give him head in the parking lot. It’s not the act that turns me on - well, not always - but the deception. The ‘passing’. The acceptance of who they see before them. With my disguises, that’s generally guaranteed; so as soon as the bodysuit and mask go on, the clock starts to tick until when I’m going to get myself off.
Tonight, I know it’ll be solo. They’re too buttoned up on this job to give me any free time. My handler isn’t so buttoned up, however, that he isn’t open to a little voyeuristic fun. At least, that’s what I’m counting on.
To start my foreplay with my remote lover, I walk through the well appointed rooms, admiring Amaira’s taste in books, music. I’m killing time, and I know it, but he doesn’t. Or maybe he suspects. Either way, I keep him waiting, giving him tantalizing, knowing glances in every mirror I pass the camera over.
Finally, I move to the bedroom. Without saying anything to my hidden observer, I walk to the full-length mirror I see in the corner, and size up my reflection. Considering I’ve done a full day’s work, I still feel pretty put together. Skirt. Hose. Heels. Blouse. Jacket. Camera. He’s seeing everything I can see.
I sigh a little; not sensual, more tired. I lift one foot from a heel, then the next, letting blood flood across my soles, resting my arches. Heels never get any more fun. Unfortunately, men never seem to get less distracted by them. As long as their seductive power continues to exist, I guess I’ll continue to wear them… even if it’s just in the bedroom.
Sitting on the edge of the bed, I cross my legs and began to massage one foot, overdoing it a little for my camera. Another moan. Another moment of sensual pleasure… or perhaps just overdue relaxation. Which does he think it is? He’s not saying right then, so I keep going, my fingers running over the nylon that encloses my feet, kneading and rubbing. I’d much prefer someone else to be doing this, but needs must.
Eventually I ease up, standing again and squaring up to the mirror. “Well,” I tell my reflection. “I guess I’m off the clock now… so I can do whatever I want, right?” I nod in response. “Anything at all. Hint. Hint.”
No response. I make a sad face, then shrug and remove the jacket, ensuring the camera is suddenly dark.
“Hey, knock it off.”
“What?”
“We still need to see you.”
“You do? Why?”
He pauses a second. “Security.”
I laugh Amaira’s laugh. “Don’t you have agents on the street and the roof? Am I not being watched from the minute I walk out the door?”
“Yes.”
“So… I get no private time at all?”
He says nothing for a second. “If you want it. Sure.”
“Well, of course I want it,” I say, lying through my dentures. “Who wouldn’t?”
Again, I’ve silenced him. He’s thinking. I sit on the bed again, ‘accidentally’ pushing the jacket aside so the camera is pointed upwards - mostly towards the ceiling, but angled enough that it can see the edge of the mirror. Which is exactly where I plant myself.
“This is kind of personal, you know,” I say, removing the earrings I carefully selected, based on the surveillance photos I’d seen. “Quite… intimate.”
“I know that,” he says. I swear he’s whispering. Or maybe just breathing heavily. “You can be alone if you want. I thought… you might not want to be.”
“Oh, you ‘thought’,” I say, smiling to myself. “You’ve been thinking about me, then.”
“Of course,” he says. He can see the trap now. It’s right in front of him.
“All day, I bet.”
“Yes,” he says, knowing he’s stepping into the jaws.
“Tell me what you’ve been thinking about.” The trap’s sprung.
“What’s underneath that outfit,” he says without hesitation. “What you’re wearing.”
“Oh, it’s really quite technical,” I say with a perfect feminine giggle. “You don’t need to know about it.”
“I’m not talking about the disguise.”
I knew he wasn’t. But I like to remind him who he’s really looking at now and again.
“Oh.” I let the word hang, then dissipate, like fog in morning sun. I turn and slowly unzip my skirt, stepping backwards so the motion is obvious to the camera. The skirt drops, the subtle rasp over my hose definitely picking up on the mic. I hear his breath catch.
I turn and look directly into the camera lens, like I just noticed it. I smile. Then I pull it up, giving it a better view.
My legs are toned and lean. Not an exact duplicate of Amaira’s, but pretty close. The bodysuit is doing an excellent job in replicating her skin tones, and my own workouts are helping with the shape. The pantyhose is the icing on the cake, a delicious final layer of deception. I give him a good, long look at the fake butt I’ve been sitting on all day, padded and sculpted to perfectly replicate Ms Chopra’s behind. It’s luscious. Begging to be touched. Pinched. Spanked, if I’m very bad. Or lucky.
Then I turn and begin to pull the blouse over my head, exposing my panties beneath the hose, my toned and flat tummy, and the white, lace-edged bra that holds my fake breasts. They’re almost as edible as my ass… although only one of them will get a real reaction from me.
The blouse drops to the floor and I adopt a casual but commanding pose. Arms crossed. Legs slightly apart. Eyes fixed on the lapel, on the camera, on him. “Well then,” I say. “Now you’ve seen what’s underneath the outfit. Satisfied?”
“You look incredible,” he says. “Stunning.”
I can’t help but smile at his sincerity. “I do rather, don’t I?” I glance at the mirror. “A shame it all has to come off….”
“Yeah.”
“Of course, I could still have a little fun first.” I wink at the camera. “As long as we keep it between ourselves.”
“It’s my job to deal in secrets.”
“That’s reassuring.” I’m not sure if I’m going to find what I need in Amaira’s personal things, but I’m game if he is. I start looking, drifting out of the camera’s view. “Are you alone?” I ask, almost casually.
“Yes.”
I give him a moment to think about that answer. “You’re sure? No other surveillance pals, crowded around a little monitor… hoping to get a glimpse of the freak show?”
“What? No. Not at all. Everyone’s gone except me.”
I push aside some underwear and knick-knacks in one of Amaira’s drawers. If it’s going to be anywhere, it’ll probably be here.
“So you’re all alone… a voice in my mind. Sounds almost romantic.”
Jackpot. Even better than I expected. I pull my find from a drawer, trailing a cord across the floor, back to the bed.
“Well then,” I say as I sit down, adjusting the camera again to give him a good view. “Are you ready for me?”
“Very.”
I plug in and flick a switch. A soft, distinct buzzing fills the air.
“Because I’m very, very ready for this.”
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