Post by Amy Jo Smyth on Mar 18, 2018 18:53:33 GMT -5
In this game, appearances are everything.
Now the United States government is paying for me and a French ally-slash-spy to shack up in a posh tourist hotel in the center of Mexico City. Hotel Emporio Reforma isn’t overly special - it ain’t the St. Regis - but it isn’t the Hilton at the airport either. It’s a small, upscale, old world style hotel that caters to a crowd that wants a more immersive and intimate experience. A place a couple might stay in - someplace a French and American lesbian couple on a secret holiday might stay in. Maybe even a hotel that a married American woman having an affair with a French woman might stay in to keep things quiet and under wraps.
I hope so, because that’s what’s happening.
Not really, though.
It’s all a story we’ve come up with.
I’m cheating on my wife with Theresa and we’ve run off to Mexico to have a secret rendezvous where we’re going to go sightseeing and have lots of sex - not in that order or maybe in that order depending on where we are. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really having an affair nor am I having sex with Theresa. It’s all an elaborate story meant to give us a background and a disguise to run with when we get down to business. Not that I know exactly what business is but like most things, I’ll figure it out when I get there.
For now, I’m digging this hotel room and the bed and that I was able to buy a brand new wardrobe for case on the CIA’s dime. I didn’t know Louboutin had a store in Mexico, but apparently there is and I got two brand new pairs. Today has been a good day. Now to settle down and read all the educational material I’ve been given by Birdie. Except Theresa moves around the room silently, deep in thought, smoking cigarettes even though she’s not allowed to smoke inside the room, and messing around with her belongings and new wardrobe. It’s somewhat distracting but not enough to keep from finding my zone.
It’s time to brush up on my knowledge of Aztec history and Mexican culture. Birdie has come through, emailing PDF books to a tablet, having the local library drop off a box full of printed books, and an assortment of glossy reproductions and photographs of Aztec artwork. He even went so far as to send us a VIP museum pass and set up an appointment with a history professor slash museum curator to discuss it. Before I know it, I’ll be expert on this stuff. But the more I know, the better. If this is what I think it is, it’ll give me an in. If it isn’t, then at the very least, it gives me a nice backstory and a reason to be there.
If they know me as a wrestler, than I’m in Mexico for wrestling. If they don’t, I’m a graduate student at I dunno, Harvard sounds nice, studying ancient cultures. I met my wife at Harvard and we live in New Jersey where she teaches English at a community college. I met Theresa while studying Charlamagne at the University of Paris. Theresa’s story will stay mostly the same - with her serving in the French foreign legion and now working as an artist and photographer.
CIA should actually stand for, cover it all.
Cover all your bases and have enough to work with that if something does come up that you didn’t work out in advance, you can come up with on the spot. Also, don’t come up with something you don’t know anything about it. Keep it simple and keep it in your range.
The curving snake stares back at me, the glossy picture of artwork showing me as much detail as you can get from a picture. I need to know why and I need to know what it means.
“Fleur de Paille Dorée,” Theresa calls out in a coo. “Oh, ma petite fauvette!” Her voice comes from the bathroom.
I open my eyes, look around, then sit up. It’s suddenly dark outside. Hours have gone by. My brain has absorbed a mass of information and then took a short siesta. That certainty plays into the stereotype.
“Oui?” I answer instinctively, my brain still foggy.
“Can you come in here, s'il vous plaît?” she asks.
I climb off the bed, only realizing how many papers and books I’ve spread out around me when a pile balanced on my leg crashes to the floor. A heavy bound book hits with a thud that even the carpet cannot completely quiet.
There’s a small splash from the bathroom. “Ca va?” she asks with concern.
“Oui,” I answer. “Coming.” I leave the book and papers where they land and head toward the bathroom. The door is unlocked and opens easily. For such a small hotel that prides itself on intimacy, the bathrooms are anything but small. The jacuzzi tubs are a couple’s delight, being large enough to comfortably fit two.
Theresa sits in the tub, leaning back against the side, foamy bubbles up to her chest, and a flute of champagne in her hand. Where did she get champagne? The bottle sits in a golden plated bucket filled to the brim with ice. This is becoming a running trend for us - the champagne, the hotel rooms, the baths, the rim of the glass rolling across her lips, all of it in an attempt to woo me into bed with her. Sooner or later, it is going to work. There is only so much one woman can take before she buckles and gives in to the temptation.
“How are you?” she asks as she slides forward. The once perfectly placed bubbles lose to gravity and slip downward, exposing the milky white tops of her breasts and that simultaneously ascending and descending winding-weaving band of stars that disappear beneath the surface. Even though I can’t see them, I know exactly how far down they go and where they finally come to a stop. A shiver runs through me, my nipples harden, and a hot feeling builds in my sexual organ. “Did you have a good nap?”
“It was fine,” I answer. “What’re you doing?”
She rests her chin on the side of the tub, looking at me with a strange mixture of playful innocence and wanton lust. “Waiting for you, mon petit le endormi.”
We look at each other for a long time, waiting to see who makes the next move. I don’t budge. Theresa breaks first. She stands up in the tub, the suds covering most of her bare flesh, but they don’t stay long because slippery on slippery doesn’t work. Lateral adhesion. Static friction becomes kinetic friction. F=μkN. Plus gravity pushing down on the suds. Theresa doesn’t know it nor does she care but in this moment there is a complex process of physics and chemistry happening in this moment, the water and soap on her skin, the surface tension of each bubble no matter how small and the release of oxygen each time one pops.
As she pours the champagne into a glass for me an even more complex reaction takes place. Displacement. Carbon dioxide being released. Surface tension. Condensation. Transference. Sublimation. A very different part of my brain takes over, squashes and quiets that primal part that wants to tear off my clothing, jump into the bath with her, and ravage her. Science has a way of turning me into a different person and it’s working right now.
The filled glass is held out for me and I take it without another word. Theresa stands there, knowing that she’s naked as sin and it’s driving me wild. I sip imported French champagne that probably cost a thousand dollars, staring at her, working through formulas, including the one that is responsible for fermenting fruit sugars into ethanol.
“I am getting cold,” she says and slips back into the water. Her foot and leg come up, her hand moves down the bare flesh, pushing the bubbles way. As if controlled by something else, I move closer, turn on the hot water and warm up the water in the tub. Next thing I know, I’m rubbing her leg and massaging her foot.
“You’re good to me,” she says. “But you’re going to your clothes all wet.”
She grabs me by the arms and I splash into the water, soaking my sleeves and the front of my shirt. Without any time for me to react, she starts pulling my shirt off. It’s like the last time she undressed me, but very different. Like last time, I don’t resist but this time I know where I am, what’s happening, and I don’t need to wash blood and brain matter off my flesh. Even a million different chemical formulas and equations can’t stop me. Before I know it, my clothes are strewn across the tile floor and I’m submerged in the water, my body enveloped in bubbles.
We laugh and giggle, poke the other with our our feet and toes. I continue to massage her foot with my hand while my other hand holds the champagne I lovingly devour. More is poured and we talk about the city and the places we’ve been and the places we want to see. War stories are exchanged alongside grazing touches. She moves in closer and I move closer.
“Tu es une belle femme,” she whispers.
My brain doesn’t really formulate anything clever to say, so I just blurt out the first one thing that has been on my mind this whole time, “I want to follow the stars and find out where they lead.”
It would have been far more poetic in French but my head isn’t working that way right now.
“Je suis à toi pour explorer,” she answers carefully.
Her hands are all over me and mine are all over her body, going to places for the very first time. I pull her out of the water, sit her on wide edge of the tub, and start to count the stars as I follow the path that has been perfectly laid out for me. I am an explorer from long ago, following the stars high above to find the my destination, the place where my treasure awaits.
Now the United States government is paying for me and a French ally-slash-spy to shack up in a posh tourist hotel in the center of Mexico City. Hotel Emporio Reforma isn’t overly special - it ain’t the St. Regis - but it isn’t the Hilton at the airport either. It’s a small, upscale, old world style hotel that caters to a crowd that wants a more immersive and intimate experience. A place a couple might stay in - someplace a French and American lesbian couple on a secret holiday might stay in. Maybe even a hotel that a married American woman having an affair with a French woman might stay in to keep things quiet and under wraps.
I hope so, because that’s what’s happening.
Not really, though.
It’s all a story we’ve come up with.
I’m cheating on my wife with Theresa and we’ve run off to Mexico to have a secret rendezvous where we’re going to go sightseeing and have lots of sex - not in that order or maybe in that order depending on where we are. It doesn’t matter. I’m not really having an affair nor am I having sex with Theresa. It’s all an elaborate story meant to give us a background and a disguise to run with when we get down to business. Not that I know exactly what business is but like most things, I’ll figure it out when I get there.
For now, I’m digging this hotel room and the bed and that I was able to buy a brand new wardrobe for case on the CIA’s dime. I didn’t know Louboutin had a store in Mexico, but apparently there is and I got two brand new pairs. Today has been a good day. Now to settle down and read all the educational material I’ve been given by Birdie. Except Theresa moves around the room silently, deep in thought, smoking cigarettes even though she’s not allowed to smoke inside the room, and messing around with her belongings and new wardrobe. It’s somewhat distracting but not enough to keep from finding my zone.
It’s time to brush up on my knowledge of Aztec history and Mexican culture. Birdie has come through, emailing PDF books to a tablet, having the local library drop off a box full of printed books, and an assortment of glossy reproductions and photographs of Aztec artwork. He even went so far as to send us a VIP museum pass and set up an appointment with a history professor slash museum curator to discuss it. Before I know it, I’ll be expert on this stuff. But the more I know, the better. If this is what I think it is, it’ll give me an in. If it isn’t, then at the very least, it gives me a nice backstory and a reason to be there.
If they know me as a wrestler, than I’m in Mexico for wrestling. If they don’t, I’m a graduate student at I dunno, Harvard sounds nice, studying ancient cultures. I met my wife at Harvard and we live in New Jersey where she teaches English at a community college. I met Theresa while studying Charlamagne at the University of Paris. Theresa’s story will stay mostly the same - with her serving in the French foreign legion and now working as an artist and photographer.
CIA should actually stand for, cover it all.
Cover all your bases and have enough to work with that if something does come up that you didn’t work out in advance, you can come up with on the spot. Also, don’t come up with something you don’t know anything about it. Keep it simple and keep it in your range.
The curving snake stares back at me, the glossy picture of artwork showing me as much detail as you can get from a picture. I need to know why and I need to know what it means.
“Fleur de Paille Dorée,” Theresa calls out in a coo. “Oh, ma petite fauvette!” Her voice comes from the bathroom.
I open my eyes, look around, then sit up. It’s suddenly dark outside. Hours have gone by. My brain has absorbed a mass of information and then took a short siesta. That certainty plays into the stereotype.
“Oui?” I answer instinctively, my brain still foggy.
“Can you come in here, s'il vous plaît?” she asks.
I climb off the bed, only realizing how many papers and books I’ve spread out around me when a pile balanced on my leg crashes to the floor. A heavy bound book hits with a thud that even the carpet cannot completely quiet.
There’s a small splash from the bathroom. “Ca va?” she asks with concern.
“Oui,” I answer. “Coming.” I leave the book and papers where they land and head toward the bathroom. The door is unlocked and opens easily. For such a small hotel that prides itself on intimacy, the bathrooms are anything but small. The jacuzzi tubs are a couple’s delight, being large enough to comfortably fit two.
Theresa sits in the tub, leaning back against the side, foamy bubbles up to her chest, and a flute of champagne in her hand. Where did she get champagne? The bottle sits in a golden plated bucket filled to the brim with ice. This is becoming a running trend for us - the champagne, the hotel rooms, the baths, the rim of the glass rolling across her lips, all of it in an attempt to woo me into bed with her. Sooner or later, it is going to work. There is only so much one woman can take before she buckles and gives in to the temptation.
“How are you?” she asks as she slides forward. The once perfectly placed bubbles lose to gravity and slip downward, exposing the milky white tops of her breasts and that simultaneously ascending and descending winding-weaving band of stars that disappear beneath the surface. Even though I can’t see them, I know exactly how far down they go and where they finally come to a stop. A shiver runs through me, my nipples harden, and a hot feeling builds in my sexual organ. “Did you have a good nap?”
“It was fine,” I answer. “What’re you doing?”
She rests her chin on the side of the tub, looking at me with a strange mixture of playful innocence and wanton lust. “Waiting for you, mon petit le endormi.”
We look at each other for a long time, waiting to see who makes the next move. I don’t budge. Theresa breaks first. She stands up in the tub, the suds covering most of her bare flesh, but they don’t stay long because slippery on slippery doesn’t work. Lateral adhesion. Static friction becomes kinetic friction. F=μkN. Plus gravity pushing down on the suds. Theresa doesn’t know it nor does she care but in this moment there is a complex process of physics and chemistry happening in this moment, the water and soap on her skin, the surface tension of each bubble no matter how small and the release of oxygen each time one pops.
As she pours the champagne into a glass for me an even more complex reaction takes place. Displacement. Carbon dioxide being released. Surface tension. Condensation. Transference. Sublimation. A very different part of my brain takes over, squashes and quiets that primal part that wants to tear off my clothing, jump into the bath with her, and ravage her. Science has a way of turning me into a different person and it’s working right now.
The filled glass is held out for me and I take it without another word. Theresa stands there, knowing that she’s naked as sin and it’s driving me wild. I sip imported French champagne that probably cost a thousand dollars, staring at her, working through formulas, including the one that is responsible for fermenting fruit sugars into ethanol.
“I am getting cold,” she says and slips back into the water. Her foot and leg come up, her hand moves down the bare flesh, pushing the bubbles way. As if controlled by something else, I move closer, turn on the hot water and warm up the water in the tub. Next thing I know, I’m rubbing her leg and massaging her foot.
“You’re good to me,” she says. “But you’re going to your clothes all wet.”
She grabs me by the arms and I splash into the water, soaking my sleeves and the front of my shirt. Without any time for me to react, she starts pulling my shirt off. It’s like the last time she undressed me, but very different. Like last time, I don’t resist but this time I know where I am, what’s happening, and I don’t need to wash blood and brain matter off my flesh. Even a million different chemical formulas and equations can’t stop me. Before I know it, my clothes are strewn across the tile floor and I’m submerged in the water, my body enveloped in bubbles.
We laugh and giggle, poke the other with our our feet and toes. I continue to massage her foot with my hand while my other hand holds the champagne I lovingly devour. More is poured and we talk about the city and the places we’ve been and the places we want to see. War stories are exchanged alongside grazing touches. She moves in closer and I move closer.
“Tu es une belle femme,” she whispers.
My brain doesn’t really formulate anything clever to say, so I just blurt out the first one thing that has been on my mind this whole time, “I want to follow the stars and find out where they lead.”
It would have been far more poetic in French but my head isn’t working that way right now.
“Je suis à toi pour explorer,” she answers carefully.
Her hands are all over me and mine are all over her body, going to places for the very first time. I pull her out of the water, sit her on wide edge of the tub, and start to count the stars as I follow the path that has been perfectly laid out for me. I am an explorer from long ago, following the stars high above to find the my destination, the place where my treasure awaits.