I walked into the lobby of this old Prairie Gothic hotel, a classy work of tindlestone, architect's imagination and deference to the British Raj. The lounge in front of me, such a throwback to the days of the Empire, beckoned ----- take a load off here, sip a glass of Cab Sav and open your case here. It snapped open crisply--- two wine glasses, a bottle of red, a bottle of white, one corkscrew, my debriefing papers and my CSIS - issued Smith&Wesson 45. Jee-zuz, did headquarters really think she was that dangerous?
I consulted my files for the fifth time----baffled by the incredulous story. A story of traveling from city-to-city across North America, a mysterious Irish businesswoman, making contacts with too-well-placed diplomats---and professionals---and politicians----and brass. Classified info suddenly floated in her wake, choking the secure airwaves between here and .....where? A spy? How? The spook-chasing business must be slow, CSIS dogging an Irish lass. Since when was Ireland a security threat?
"I'm in the lobby now. What's the room #?" I texted.
"666. Come on up".
The grunts back at Ottawa has planned it well. Lure her to a hotel room, a simple pretense of a lucrative new deal for a local hockey team, then spring the interrogation. Straight-forward slamdunk.
She opened the door. It was like yesterday's debriefing at RCMP regional headquarters: "She'll have a light satin teal wrap on, perfect for concealing small weapons. Sure, she'll drop the robe to the ground, revealing a matching 34-C cup push bra and bikini bottoms, smooth skin with an occasional freckle, and a relaxed friendly smile, all meant to disarm you. NEVER let your guard down".
"Good to see you. Please come in and have a seat on my bed", as a tone-perfect Celtic lilt wafted from her mouth to my ears. Sooo sexy, a hypnotic aphrodisiac that started to intoxicate me.
"No, you come close to me," I said, forcing my senses back into my control. I dropped my briefcase on the bed and wrapped my arms around her, pressing my hands firmly on her ass, her lower back, her upper back, her arms, her neck, working my hands around to cup the thin fabric of her bra, testing the supple flesh within. Damn, she's good, no palpable firearms of any kind on her person anywhere. My lips lightly graced hers, my tongue exploring for a suicide capsule. Nothing.
Her hair was a ginger-red; all the Irish stereotypes in play. Wary that her hair was just one more disguise, I made a mental note to check later for the colour of her rug.
Surveying the room for booby traps, I could see how its faux Old World charm appealed to an European, even one so young. Her level of sophistication was apparent, emitting a miasma of overhanging danger and tension.
A bottle of white said "Hello" first, gliding effortlessly from my case through my hands to the hotel room desk. I poured for us both ---- CSIS had assured me the antidote now coursing my bloodstream would mean the truth serum-laced wine would only affect my enticing target.
A desultory conversation about a sham hockey team sale ensued --- the Irish and hockey? The boys at headquarters had smoked too much wacky-tabakky the day they concocted this cover story. Caressing her skin, warming her flesh to make the truth serum work more quickly, I was jolted when her Irish accent pronounced. "I know why you are really here.....AGENT M69". She leaned over to me, self-assured and knowing.
WTF??? My cover was blown, how could that be? I had so much expereince doing this with so many women before, what had let me down this time? Yet she showed her hand too impulsively, the truth serum was beginning to work! I reflexly reached into my case and pulled out my pistol. I pointed my pistol---and my gun----right at her.
"I need information, Roksi. I am going to ask you some questions now. And you will answer them," both my weapons firmly trained upon their intended targets.
"I have handled bigger agents before, M69. You do not frighten me. But, your Smith&Wesson 45 is so much more impressive than the Walther PKK of that last agent I dispatched. I admire a man who packs a large firearm and who knows how to handle it." She casually removed her top and bottom while talking, launching the two flimsy pieces into the opposite corners of the room. My gun strained at the ready, taking in her sultry youthful form, her perfect natural breasts, her wasp waist, her willowy neck, her gorgeous face, her fantastic ass. Her attention to detail was exquisite, she had even shaved away her carpet to reveal a smooth inviting pussy, giving no hint of her Irish ancestry.
"You are going to talk, Roksi", my clothes sliding off me onto the chair, my gaze locked on her boobs and my gun on her body----and my pistol at her chest. I laid her down and placed the pistol on the bedspread, to start a thorough interrogation.
As I lay beside her, we kissed and fondled everywhere. Nuts! Still no concealed weapons on her. She's good. I kissed her neck, pressing my shooter against her flesh. It was not the best shot to take, but I would get there soon enough.
"Have some more of this marvelous Chardonnay from the Niagara Peninsula", I entreated her, knowing the truth serum would work in minutes. Why does Ottawa make me use this awful domestic hooch; locals ALWAYS stand me up!
"I won't talk!", she asserted, " I was trained by VJ", she said, alluding to the crack Quebec master spy who operated in Manitoba frequently.
I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a container of cherry-flavoured whipped cream from Love Nest (none of that unreliable stuff the feds like to send us), spraying a generous amount of it over her nipples and covering her kat, smearing it all over her stomach, arms and legs.
"Ohhh, that is sooo sexy", she purred, not realizing the truth serum the cream was laced with would make her putty in my hands.
I rolled her over onto her back and licked off the cream, slowly, increasing her excitement and thus making her.....weak. Whipped cream covered both our faces, as we laughed. I worked my way over her tits and tummy, lapping up the flavourful foam with my tongue, finally licking the sweet cream from her smooth pussy. She writhed on the king-size bed, staring up at the ceiling and fixated on her own pleasure, hypnotized into submission.
"What is your mission here?", I asked, between sucks of her oh-so-small pleasure button.
Ohhh --- ohhh -------ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh", she hummed unintelligibly. CSIS said she would be easy to crack!? What gives? I licked her all the more, hoping to get some useful info from her. "OOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhh.......", she moaned.
I pointed my gun at her mouth, "Talk!", I said. "I KNOW you are an Irish spy. What is your mission?" I thought the truth serum would have her utterly helpless by now, but instead she put her mouth over my naked stiff pipe and deep-throated me. "Now you talk, agent M69. What do Canadian pooners want the most?". Her tongue was demanding, exploring up and down my shaft, an expert teasing that Canada's Anglo agents had never been trained in....or even been able to learn. Wow!
"Cum, Agent M69, your cuntry is not so important. Tell me what I want to know. You know you can't resist". Her head proceeded to bob over me --- up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down...GOD, she was good. I felt my dick throbbing, begging for release as she slowed her pace, my upper lip quivering. "What makes Prairie pooners weak?" she whispered to me, sensing my impending collapse as she licked my balls so gently.
I flipped her onto her back, gliding across the whipped cream between our bodies, positioning my erect gun into her mouth to make her suck me madly. I braced my hands against the wall, pumping my gun furiously into her throat. She didn't wince, taking all my energy and demanding more. Fuck......who trains these Irish agents so well? The Quebeckers? I know of no agents in Manitoba with such oral skills, and such mettle to take my proud pecker when it is at its greatest anger.
She needed enhanced interrogation. I slid my cock down the length of her body, adorning it with the special latex armor CSIS had made for me and then thrust it deep into her awaiting sweet spot, me on top of her. "I'll never talk", she shouted. I pounded her furiously, the smile on her face marking her developing weakness."WHAT IS YOUR MISSION IN WINNIPEG ???", I shouted. "MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm",was all she replied, her closed eyes and agape mouth pointed up at me. I placed her soles on my face, driving my cock up to her throat. ."WHAT IS YOUR MISSION IN WINNIPEG ???" I scissored her; pounded her from the edge of the bed......she gave me NOTHING!
I rolled her over into doggie position, furiously injecting her with a squirt of 10 cc of my concentrated truth serum. "AHHHHH. I confess!", she cracked at last. "I was sent here to activate a secret Irish terrorist cell, the Fenian Sisterhood, planted here back in 1870!"
"What???", I said meekly slumping down. Enhanced interrogation takes a lot out of me.
"We have been lying in wait, the Sisterhood, planning to bring unspeakable carnal pleasure to Winnipeg men. It is our centuries-old mission, our lives' work"
DIABOLICAL!!! :doh: Winnipeg men being allowed to have uninhibited carnal pleasure? Decades of priggish and school-marmish work by city council undone? Departments of Gender Studies rocked by the thought of River City men....ughh...enjoying themselves! Such political incorrectness! UNTHINKABLE!!!
Bitch! Shit, can you believe it, Ottawa and CSIS were right for once! She WAS dangerous, a serious threat to national security and frigidity, a stealth missle set against our dull Prairie ways! But she was now mine, under the influence of a strong dose of the CSIS concoction of truth, cleaning my cock and now prepared to answer ALL my questions, as we finished the white grape and moved onto the bottle of red. I had to gather more info so authorities could extinguish this terrorist cell, just as they had successfully wiped out so many massage parlour cells.
I left after a thorough experience, completing my final reports for Ottawa, the legislature and city council in the hotel lounge with a bottle of Merlot to assist me, still groggy from the whole experience. I filed my report with headquarters on Portage the next day, hoping against hope that the great Jenny Gerbasi herself would pin a medal on my chest for my heroic service in the Winnipeg tradition.
Damage: $$$/hr plus vino.
L: 10
A: 10
S: 10
A clever plot by a beautiful Irish lass to deliver Manitoba into the arms of Celtic sexiness and free the Prairies boys from Mennonite prudishness, foiled by Agent M69! But we denizens of River City must be ever vigilant, as other gorgeous terrorists will likely try again to enter the province and facilitate Manitoba men......wait for it.....to have natural fun!
I consulted my files for the fifth time----baffled by the incredulous story. A story of traveling from city-to-city across North America, a mysterious Irish businesswoman, making contacts with too-well-placed diplomats---and professionals---and politicians----and brass. Classified info suddenly floated in her wake, choking the secure airwaves between here and .....where? A spy? How? The spook-chasing business must be slow, CSIS dogging an Irish lass. Since when was Ireland a security threat?
"I'm in the lobby now. What's the room #?" I texted.
"666. Come on up".
The grunts back at Ottawa has planned it well. Lure her to a hotel room, a simple pretense of a lucrative new deal for a local hockey team, then spring the interrogation. Straight-forward slamdunk.
She opened the door. It was like yesterday's debriefing at RCMP regional headquarters: "She'll have a light satin teal wrap on, perfect for concealing small weapons. Sure, she'll drop the robe to the ground, revealing a matching 34-C cup push bra and bikini bottoms, smooth skin with an occasional freckle, and a relaxed friendly smile, all meant to disarm you. NEVER let your guard down".
"Good to see you. Please come in and have a seat on my bed", as a tone-perfect Celtic lilt wafted from her mouth to my ears. Sooo sexy, a hypnotic aphrodisiac that started to intoxicate me.
"No, you come close to me," I said, forcing my senses back into my control. I dropped my briefcase on the bed and wrapped my arms around her, pressing my hands firmly on her ass, her lower back, her upper back, her arms, her neck, working my hands around to cup the thin fabric of her bra, testing the supple flesh within. Damn, she's good, no palpable firearms of any kind on her person anywhere. My lips lightly graced hers, my tongue exploring for a suicide capsule. Nothing.
Her hair was a ginger-red; all the Irish stereotypes in play. Wary that her hair was just one more disguise, I made a mental note to check later for the colour of her rug.
Surveying the room for booby traps, I could see how its faux Old World charm appealed to an European, even one so young. Her level of sophistication was apparent, emitting a miasma of overhanging danger and tension.
A bottle of white said "Hello" first, gliding effortlessly from my case through my hands to the hotel room desk. I poured for us both ---- CSIS had assured me the antidote now coursing my bloodstream would mean the truth serum-laced wine would only affect my enticing target.
A desultory conversation about a sham hockey team sale ensued --- the Irish and hockey? The boys at headquarters had smoked too much wacky-tabakky the day they concocted this cover story. Caressing her skin, warming her flesh to make the truth serum work more quickly, I was jolted when her Irish accent pronounced. "I know why you are really here.....AGENT M69". She leaned over to me, self-assured and knowing.
WTF??? My cover was blown, how could that be? I had so much expereince doing this with so many women before, what had let me down this time? Yet she showed her hand too impulsively, the truth serum was beginning to work! I reflexly reached into my case and pulled out my pistol. I pointed my pistol---and my gun----right at her.
"I need information, Roksi. I am going to ask you some questions now. And you will answer them," both my weapons firmly trained upon their intended targets.
"I have handled bigger agents before, M69. You do not frighten me. But, your Smith&Wesson 45 is so much more impressive than the Walther PKK of that last agent I dispatched. I admire a man who packs a large firearm and who knows how to handle it." She casually removed her top and bottom while talking, launching the two flimsy pieces into the opposite corners of the room. My gun strained at the ready, taking in her sultry youthful form, her perfect natural breasts, her wasp waist, her willowy neck, her gorgeous face, her fantastic ass. Her attention to detail was exquisite, she had even shaved away her carpet to reveal a smooth inviting pussy, giving no hint of her Irish ancestry.
"You are going to talk, Roksi", my clothes sliding off me onto the chair, my gaze locked on her boobs and my gun on her body----and my pistol at her chest. I laid her down and placed the pistol on the bedspread, to start a thorough interrogation.
As I lay beside her, we kissed and fondled everywhere. Nuts! Still no concealed weapons on her. She's good. I kissed her neck, pressing my shooter against her flesh. It was not the best shot to take, but I would get there soon enough.
"Have some more of this marvelous Chardonnay from the Niagara Peninsula", I entreated her, knowing the truth serum would work in minutes. Why does Ottawa make me use this awful domestic hooch; locals ALWAYS stand me up!
"I won't talk!", she asserted, " I was trained by VJ", she said, alluding to the crack Quebec master spy who operated in Manitoba frequently.
I reached into my briefcase and pulled out a container of cherry-flavoured whipped cream from Love Nest (none of that unreliable stuff the feds like to send us), spraying a generous amount of it over her nipples and covering her kat, smearing it all over her stomach, arms and legs.
"Ohhh, that is sooo sexy", she purred, not realizing the truth serum the cream was laced with would make her putty in my hands.
I rolled her over onto her back and licked off the cream, slowly, increasing her excitement and thus making her.....weak. Whipped cream covered both our faces, as we laughed. I worked my way over her tits and tummy, lapping up the flavourful foam with my tongue, finally licking the sweet cream from her smooth pussy. She writhed on the king-size bed, staring up at the ceiling and fixated on her own pleasure, hypnotized into submission.
"What is your mission here?", I asked, between sucks of her oh-so-small pleasure button.
Ohhh --- ohhh -------ooohhhhhhhhhhhhhh", she hummed unintelligibly. CSIS said she would be easy to crack!? What gives? I licked her all the more, hoping to get some useful info from her. "OOOOOOhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHhhhhhhhhhh.......", she moaned.
I pointed my gun at her mouth, "Talk!", I said. "I KNOW you are an Irish spy. What is your mission?" I thought the truth serum would have her utterly helpless by now, but instead she put her mouth over my naked stiff pipe and deep-throated me. "Now you talk, agent M69. What do Canadian pooners want the most?". Her tongue was demanding, exploring up and down my shaft, an expert teasing that Canada's Anglo agents had never been trained in....or even been able to learn. Wow!
"Cum, Agent M69, your cuntry is not so important. Tell me what I want to know. You know you can't resist". Her head proceeded to bob over me --- up-and-down, up-and-down, up-and-down...GOD, she was good. I felt my dick throbbing, begging for release as she slowed her pace, my upper lip quivering. "What makes Prairie pooners weak?" she whispered to me, sensing my impending collapse as she licked my balls so gently.
I flipped her onto her back, gliding across the whipped cream between our bodies, positioning my erect gun into her mouth to make her suck me madly. I braced my hands against the wall, pumping my gun furiously into her throat. She didn't wince, taking all my energy and demanding more. Fuck......who trains these Irish agents so well? The Quebeckers? I know of no agents in Manitoba with such oral skills, and such mettle to take my proud pecker when it is at its greatest anger.
She needed enhanced interrogation. I slid my cock down the length of her body, adorning it with the special latex armor CSIS had made for me and then thrust it deep into her awaiting sweet spot, me on top of her. "I'll never talk", she shouted. I pounded her furiously, the smile on her face marking her developing weakness."WHAT IS YOUR MISSION IN WINNIPEG ???", I shouted. "MMMMMMMMMMmmmmmmmmm",was all she replied, her closed eyes and agape mouth pointed up at me. I placed her soles on my face, driving my cock up to her throat. ."WHAT IS YOUR MISSION IN WINNIPEG ???" I scissored her; pounded her from the edge of the bed......she gave me NOTHING!
I rolled her over into doggie position, furiously injecting her with a squirt of 10 cc of my concentrated truth serum. "AHHHHH. I confess!", she cracked at last. "I was sent here to activate a secret Irish terrorist cell, the Fenian Sisterhood, planted here back in 1870!"
"What???", I said meekly slumping down. Enhanced interrogation takes a lot out of me.
"We have been lying in wait, the Sisterhood, planning to bring unspeakable carnal pleasure to Winnipeg men. It is our centuries-old mission, our lives' work"
DIABOLICAL!!! :doh: Winnipeg men being allowed to have uninhibited carnal pleasure? Decades of priggish and school-marmish work by city council undone? Departments of Gender Studies rocked by the thought of River City men....ughh...enjoying themselves! Such political incorrectness! UNTHINKABLE!!!
Bitch! Shit, can you believe it, Ottawa and CSIS were right for once! She WAS dangerous, a serious threat to national security and frigidity, a stealth missle set against our dull Prairie ways! But she was now mine, under the influence of a strong dose of the CSIS concoction of truth, cleaning my cock and now prepared to answer ALL my questions, as we finished the white grape and moved onto the bottle of red. I had to gather more info so authorities could extinguish this terrorist cell, just as they had successfully wiped out so many massage parlour cells.
I left after a thorough experience, completing my final reports for Ottawa, the legislature and city council in the hotel lounge with a bottle of Merlot to assist me, still groggy from the whole experience. I filed my report with headquarters on Portage the next day, hoping against hope that the great Jenny Gerbasi herself would pin a medal on my chest for my heroic service in the Winnipeg tradition.
Damage: $$$/hr plus vino.
L: 10
A: 10
S: 10
A clever plot by a beautiful Irish lass to deliver Manitoba into the arms of Celtic sexiness and free the Prairies boys from Mennonite prudishness, foiled by Agent M69! But we denizens of River City must be ever vigilant, as other gorgeous terrorists will likely try again to enter the province and facilitate Manitoba men......wait for it.....to have natural fun!
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