Sex, Lies and Streaming Video

“Happy 32nd birthday!”

It was 12:01 am. She was naked, except for icing covering her nipples and crotch and the red ribbon bow at her throat. The little cake she held in her hands had two candles, one the number 3 and the other the number 2. It looked like a black forest. Some of the chocolate icing had stuck to her blonde hair.

I sat up in bed and blew out the two candles with one breath. “Do I get to unwrap my present now?”

“You get to eat your present,” she corrected, giggling. God, I love teenage girls, especially these Aussies. They’re usually up for anything. I took the cake from her and set it on the nightstand. One sweep of my finger produced a nice fat gob of icing, which I placed on her lips. My own lips followed, my tongue pushing the chocolate into her already-open mouth. Our tongues wrestled for the chocolate, each winning a portion of the prize. I traced down, past the red bow, to her breasts. One suck of each nipple melted away the icing, revealing the prize beneath, already hard. I could hear her breathing harder as I made my way down to the last remaining confection on her body. Tongue and fingers moved swiftly, filling both her openings deep and decisively. She sighed.

 

“Good morning Agent Seven. Happy birthday.”

“Thank you Miss Chatsworth. It feels good to have lived to old age in this job.”

“You’re 42. That’s not old.”

“It’s older than everyone from Thirteen onwards.”

“That’s what you think.”

“I defer to your superior information. Nonetheless, thank you for remembering. Now where is our guest?”

“You’re welcome, and your guest is in Tahiti B.”

“A magical place.”

 

“Good morning. I hope I didn’t keep you waiting.” The door closed behind me.

The woman was naked. She was bound in the form of an X, her wrists and ankles secured to the ceiling and floor respectively. Her red hair had been sheared short. She was blindfolded.

“You’re making a mistake. Please, I don’t know anything.”

“You wouldn’t be much of a guest if you claimed to know anything.”

“But I DON’T know anything!”

I walked over to the table in the corner, where my tools were. The tools for this job anyway. I chose the wireless probes, to begin with. They gleamed in the dim light. I walked back to my guest.

I pulled off her blindfold. The woman was attractive, despite shorn hair and dishabille. She was in her early thirties. Green eyes, red hair, Irish accent. Perspiration dotted her face. “You know I need three names,” I said.

“I already told you, I have no idea what you’re talking about!”

“Okay.” I slid one probe into her vagina. She jerked from the cold metal entering her as she protested. “Why are you doing this?” I pushed to probe in as far as it would go.

“I already told you. I need three names.” The other probe went up her anus. Blood trickled onto my gloves. I wasn’t trying to be gentle. She screamed as the probe went in to the hilt.

I pulled my phone from my pocket. “If you think having those probes in you is unpleasant, you’re about to have a greater appreciation for what three names can do for you.”

She was sobbing. “I don’t know anything,” she repeated in gasps.

“Okay.” I tapped on my phone’s screen. This got so much easier when they made an app for it.

 

“SURPRISE!!!”

A streamer with HAPPY BIRTHDAY DAD on it was hung in the living room. My daughter ran into my arms. “You’re late,” she scolded.

“Happy 50th honey,” said my wife as she hugged me, smooshing our daughter between us. “I’m gonna grab your present!” The little one ran off in search of her quarry.

“How was the business trip?”

“It was good. I got three new leads that I’ll need to hit up for business.”

“Soon?”

“Not tonight.”

“Good.”

Our daughter reappeared, a gift-wrapped box in her hands. “It’s a new phone,” she said excitedly. “Open it up dad!”

I hoped all my apps would run on the thing.

 

After dinner with the wife and tyke, I took my evening walk, as was my custom, around the park near our house. It was almost midnight on a cold day. I sat on the bench facing the playground. It was deserted. A woman was sitting on the bench to my back, dressed in an overcoat, hat and scarf.

“Seven,” she said in greeting.

“Password,” I replied.

“Westminster.”

“Nine,” I acknowledged.

“Password,” she countered.

“Christchurch.”

“Happy birthday.”

“It’s not my fucking birthday.”


This post was written in response to The Daily Post’s Writing Challenge “Ice, Water, Steam“.

“For this week’s writing challenge, take on the theme of H2O. What does it mean to be the same thing, in different forms?”

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