Signals

“…then you fell asleep. Anyway I’m done for the day. Going to grab a drink.”

“Well it’s been a real pleasure Geoff. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Ms. Winters. If anything comes up you have my card.”

She’s pretty hot and bothered as I make my way out the door. I pull out my phone in the elevator and link into the button cams I installed all over her apartment while she was out of it. I wonder what it would do to that thin veneer of control to know that someone’s watching her jill herself off.

I head back to my hotel and free a still very **** Juan from the bed, leave him a note that will lead him to believe that we had an amazingly romantic night, and telling him that checkout is in the morning, but that I got called back to Tuskegee by my office, pack all my stuff, and relocate to my other hotel on the Upper East Side. Hopefully he buys it. I’d hate to have to kill him.

I’ve already set the place up for surveillance of Melanie’s Park Ave. residence, and between the hidden microphones and button cams I can watch everything she does, listen to her phone calls on the cloned cel phone that I made, and actually hijack her landline signal if necessary.

My next step is going to be to ingratiate myself with Valerie and see if I can’t get into her head. I have to figure out a way to get her another bird tattoo behind her other ear.

While I watch Melanie pleasure herself, I scan through the deep web forums looking for as much information as I can find on the underground club scene in Manhattan, looking for a pop-up or rave that’ll attract Valerie’s attention. Better still would be two different ones on different nights. There’s an underground pop-up in a small basement on Avenue F tomorrow night, and a rave in the Bowery on Saturday. Perfect.

I’m in Hugo Boss, a Breitling watch on my wrist, an honest to god Stetson, and a pair of Prada loafers when I slip the bouncer $500 to get into the pop-up. People will remember the clothes, but my blandly handsome face is utterly forgettable. Valerie shows up with her entourage of hangers on, little rich girls the lot of them, at ten to midnight, and it’s obvious they’ve already been partying. They scan the club like a pack of hyenas looking for a carcass to dine on. It took some money thrown around, but I’ve gotten the four of them into the VIP section.

They take it in stride, but are a bit taken aback when the magnum of ‘08 Dom shows up at the table. The cocktail waitress points me out and I raise my glass in response. It’s about 1 am when I send them another round of drinks and a note requesting the company of one of them. Not Valerie. She’s the endgame of this particular hunt, but again, this is the long game. I single out Marissa Queen, the dumpy little fat girl with the pockmarks that Valerie keeps around to make herself look better.

Cut from the herd, the homely little rich girl is easy prey. We dance and party, I compliment and seduce, and Marissa comes back to my place after last call rather than join the others at an after hours party. She’s already in a trance by the time we leave the basement, and deep into it by the time we enter my hotel.

I give Marissa the night of her life, fucking her in every position possible, making her cum over and over again, and programming her for exactly what she’s to tell Valerie about me. When I send her on her way in the morning, my little sleeper agent is primed and ready to make my true prey green with envy.

The next night it’s Armani and Gucci, and Valerie targets me like a heat seeking missile. She corners me after dismissing Marissa to the bar. As I planned. She grinds on me, and I politely dance back at her, but keep her at arm’s lengths. Finally she can’t take it anymore and presses her body against me, hissing in my ear, “Marissa says you’re hung like a mule. I wanna see.”

Well who am I to deny the delectable Ms. Winters?