The meeting

Jill woke to the faint hum of Kings Cross traffic and an ache in every muscle. Her body remembered last night in vivid detail: the slap of skin, the taste of Kim’s sweat, the way her fingers had curled deep inside her while they fought and fucked on the hotel floor. Her nipples tightened instantly at the memory, rubbing against the thin sheet.

Kim was already gone. Only a note remained on the pillow:

0900. 47 Harrington Street, Level 4. Use the name “Eleanor Voss.” Don’t be late. – K

No kiss. No softness. Just business.

Jill showered quickly, wincing as the hot water hit the faint bruises on her ribs and inner thighs. She dressed professionally — dark navy blouse, tailored black trousers, and a structured jacket that hid the way her nipples were already reacting to the cool morning air. She pulled her long blonde hair into a tight, sleek bun. Looking in the mirror, she saw the same tall, composed probationer who had left London. But she felt different. Hungrier.

The building on Harrington Street looked like any other bland government office in the CBD — grey concrete, tinted windows, and security that took her ID twice before letting her through. On the fourth floor, a stern woman led her into a windowless briefing room.

Four people were already seated around a polished table under harsh fluorescent lights. Kim sat at the far end, dressed in a crisp charcoal suit, white shirt, and minimal makeup. Her short dark hair was neatly styled. She looked every inch the professional intelligence officer.

Their eyes met.

For a split second, the room disappeared. Jill remembered Kim’s pierced nipples in her mouth, the wet grind of their pussies as they wrestled, the way Kim had moaned into her cunt while Jill rode her face. Kim’s dark eyes flickered with the same memory. A tiny muscle twitched in her jaw, but her expression remained cool and detached.

“Eleanor Voss,” Kim said formally. “Please take a seat.”

Two other officials were present: a middle-aged man in an AFP polo shirt named Superintendent Reyes, and a sharp-featured woman from ASIO identified only as “Director Langford.”

Kim began the briefing without warmth.

“Last night was an… informal assessment,” she said, her voice steady. “You passed. Barely.”

Jill felt heat rise up her neck. Under the table, she squeezed her thighs together.

Director Langford slid a thick folder across the table. “Operation Blood & Canvas. We have reason to believe a major international art smuggling ring is using Sydney’s underground fight scene as both a revenue stream and a distribution network. High-value stolen and forged artworks are being moved during elite after-parties attended by the city’s wealthiest criminals and corrupt officials.”

Superintendent Reyes continued, “The underground fights are brutal, illegal, and heavily bet upon. They’re controlled by Tommy ‘The Butcher’ Malone. But the real power sits higher — Marcel Duval, a respected French-Australian art dealer, and Damian Hale, a reclusive tech billionaire who owns half the surveillance tech used in this city. Hale records everything. **** is part of the business model.”

Kim clicked a remote. Photos appeared on the screen: bloody fights in Redfern warehouses, glamorous parties on harbourfront mansions, and surveillance images of Hale’s cliffside Bondi residence.

“Your role, Jill,” Kim said, using her real name for the first time in the room, “is to enter the fight scene as a mysterious, wealthy British tourist with a taste for **** and danger. Your genuine combat record makes this cover credible. You will fight. You will win. And you will get close to Tommy, Duval, and eventually Hale.”

Director Langford leaned forward. “You will be given financial backing — expensive clothes, hotel upgrades, and a cover story as a bored heiress. Kim will be your primary handler. All communication goes through her.”

Jill kept her face neutral, but she could feel Kim’s gaze on her like a physical touch. Every time Kim spoke, Jill remembered that same voice growling “sit on my face” while she pinned her down.

Kim continued, her tone strictly professional, but her eyes lingered a fraction too long on the way Jill’s blouse stretched across her chest.

“Expect to be tested — sexually and physically. These people do not trust easily. You will likely have to fuck your way up the ladder. If that’s a problem, say it now.”

Jill met Kim’s stare directly across the table. The memory of their naked, sweat-slick bodies grinding together flashed between them like lightning.

“It’s not a problem,” Jill said calmly.

A faint, almost invisible smirk tugged at the corner of Kim’s mouth before disappearing.

“Good,” Kim replied. “Because after last night, we both know exactly how capable you are in close quarters.”

The other officials didn’t catch the double meaning, but the air in the room suddenly felt thick. Jill’s nipples were painfully hard against her bra, and she was certain Kim knew it.

Langford wrapped up the briefing with operational details — emergency extraction protocols, dead drops, and a burner phone already loaded with encrypted contact for Kim. As the meeting ended, the officials stood and filed out, leaving Jill and Kim alone for a brief moment.

Kim walked around the table slowly, stopping just close enough that Jill could smell her clean, sharp scent.

“Last night was the warm-up,” Kim murmured, voice low. “From now on, we stay professional in public. But when we’re alone…” Her eyes dropped to Jill’s chest, where her nipples were visibly pressing against the fabric. “Try not to get too wet during briefings, probationer.”

Jill stepped closer, towering over Kim by several inches. “Same goes for you, handler.”

Kim’s tongue touched her lower lip for half a second before she regained control.

“Your first fight is in three nights. Train hard. I’ll be watching.” She paused at the door. “And Jill? Don’t lose.”

The door clicked shut behind her.

Jill let out a long breath, pressing a hand against her lower stomach where desire had pooled hot and heavy once again.

The mission had officially begun.