Sally the Assassin by Will Dawson
Sally woke up late in her spare yet finely furnished apartment, knowing she had to check her email even before her morning coffee. First she checked her personal email. There were a couple messages from some friends and one from her parents, but since it was nothing important she didn’t even bother to read them. Instead, she signed into her cover name’s message service, expecting another communication from a potential client.
"Skinny Female Ninja Fighter" by Flickr user davide.tarasconi
Sally was a part-time assassin. Indeed there was one client message, and he agreed to meet her at her suggested location later that night. Sally confirmed the rendezvous time and place. She also re-stated the terms and how payment should be made to avoid any misunderstanding.
After hitting send, Sally made herself a light breakfast of coffee and toast. She had a second piece of toast she didn’t really need while reading the careers section of the Globe and Mail.
By waking up late, she had left herself less time to paint then she would have liked, although luckily she didn’t have to go far. Her dining room, minus the dining room table, was a makeshift studio. There were dozens of half-finished paintings stacked in the corner.
She only had one of her paintings on the wall. It was of a naked girl standing in front of a full length mirror. The girl, however, was looking away from her reflection. The girl’s reflection was somewhat obviously a mirror image, except that the reflection was looking back at the girl instead of looking away. The other difference was that, in the reflection, there were two flowers in the vase that stood empty in the “real life” vase.
Sally worked right through lunch, and at 2 o’clock she put away the paints to head off to her yoga class. Though her body was perfectly in shape, yoga was the one place on earth where Sally felt as if she didn’t quite measure up. But each time she left the studio she felt a wave of pride wash over her body, and it wouldn’t be more then a block or two before some random man would take a second look at her athletic-wear and the shapely body beneath. In the real world, outside the studio, her curves were usually seen as assets, rather than unfulfilled potential.
Once back at her apartment, Sally showered and had a half plate of leftover sushi before applying her make-up and slipping into an appropriate outfit for her mission. Before leaving, she checked to make sure her tools of the trade were in place. She opened her briefcase and looked over each item, then spent a few extra moments inspecting the large black, almost phallic object to ensure that it was spotless. She referred to it as “the silencer,” because when used properly, it left the intended recipient speechless.
Sally arrived at the room she had prearranged only a few minutes before her client was to arrive. After removing two items, she hurriedly placed her briefcase in the bathroom where she could access it, unseen. She then took a bottle of wine from the mini fridge and poured herself half a glass as she waited patiently for her client to arrive.
At the sound of three knocks on the door, Sally took a depth breath and moved toward the entrance. The knock on the door was always the moment where her needs became secondary; she knew this was essential for her mission’s success. When the door was more then half opened, she smiled and said, “You must be Frank. Please come in.”
Sally walked slowly to the center of the room and then spun unexpectedly back towards the entrance, knowing her client would be face to face with her. It was a little routine she had perfected that gave the man a chance to give her a welcome kiss without having to knowingly lean toward her.
Sally asked Frank to serve the wine while she discretely counted the money in the envelope he had just placed on the dresser. It only took Sally a few moments with her client to know just what role she would have to play to accomplish her mission. Tonight it was the seductress. She made everything easy for him, never once allowing him to have an awkward moment. While he enjoyed his drink, Sally swung her hips every so gently back and forth while running her hands through her hair.
"Now where did I leave that vibrator?" photo by Flickr user joannatv
When the wine was finished, Sally took Frank’s hand and led him to the edge of the bed where she directed him to sit. She removed her own clothes, always staying just in contact with her client, to make him feel connected to her. Once nude, she leaned into his body while he was still sitting up, allowing him to molest every inch of her he wanted to. Sally then suggested he undress so she could give him a massage. She helped him with his clothes. Again she used another little trick she had learned: instead of asking him to turn over, she pretended to have a need to go down on him. She knew that the surprise factor would lead to a quick orgasm, reducing the overall time she needed to have his cock in her mouth. Her plan worked like a charm.
Once he had finished shivering, she instructed him to turn over so she could give him the massage she had promised. She then excused herself to the bathroom to get some oil. This was also an excuse to gain access to her briefcase, where she quickly put a harness on and took out the silencer. When she entered the room she turned off the lights.
Just as she had promised, she began with a massage. She slowly prepared him for what was to come. The trick was to match the insertion of her first finger with his heavy breathing. When she felt he was ready to accept, she slide the silencer into him. Indeed, he gasped as planned. Sally was almost certain that this time she would feel a sense of accomplishment when she arrived home.
She had indeed been successful yet again. Her confirmation came in three forms: her client called her Sarah as he kissed her goodbye, her services were not requested again, and the emptiness she was trying to evade didn’t go away.
XXX
Will Dawson is a 31-year-old male who has never paid for sex, but has paid for a few lap dances. He likes writers better than strippers, but sometimes it’s a close call. A writer who strips? Well, that’s fucking hot.
