Fiction, Health and wellbeing, Melbourne, Writing

The Mission

‘Once the assignment is complete, you will be escorted to the airport, where you will board a jet that will fly you to an as-yet undisclosed location.’

Barry, my handler, is serious. Softly-spoken, measured.

I am terrified. This is my first real mission and it involves a large serving of femme fatale. Honestly, I don’t think I can pull it off. I mean, yes, I’m hot AF and ordinarily, I’m happy for the attention from the opposite sex. But you should see the target. Fat, balding, sweaty. Kind of looks like Jabba the Hutt. I don’t want to see him naked. But if it’s called for, then yes, I’ll have to have sex with him.

You and me both know it’s going to be called for, right? The target only needs to take one look at me and he’ll be imagining us together.

Urgh. I think I’m going to be sick.

It will be easier for me to complete the mission, though, if he’s vulnerable and supine. I can keep the syringe in a bedside table and cleanly sink it into his neck while he’s…um…focussed on…his head is…um…well, you get it. Surely.

‘You got it?’ Barry asks. Weird. Can he read my mind, hear my thoughts?

‘Yep. Too easy.’

‘Then why do you look like a deer in headlights?’

Christ, he’s noticed. I must work on my poker face. ‘First assignment. All that shizz. You know.’

I trust Barry. He’s been my dad’s friend like forever and he took me under his wing after Dad was killed on a mission of his own. I never knew my mum, she took off when I was a baby, so once Dad was gone, it was Barry’s family or the streets.

‘Alright,’ Barry says. ‘Get to it.’

‘Bye for now.’ I walk away, not looking back. Dad taught me that one. Never look behind you. Ever.

The limo takes me to the target’s mansion. At the cocktail party I’m introduced to him. Predictably, he looks at me like I’m a cake with icing, cream and custard on a plate. Almost licks his lips.

From then, I have no problem persuading him to take me somewhere private. To my delight, he ignores the bed, instead sits in a oversized arm chair.

‘Strip for me,’ he says. His voice is throaty and deep. If I shut my eyes, I will be able to imagine the voice belongs to a handsome, much slimmer man, and I might even be able to get in the mood.

Music begins to play. I don’t recall seeing him with a remote, or his phone, or even mutter to Siri, or Alexa, or whatever creepy device people use these days.

I begin to sway, and slowly pull down the shoestring straps of my dress. I peek through my lashes as he cranes his neck to see the milky-white flesh of my breast. Again, he nearly licks his lips.

The need for me surreptitiously place the syringe somewhere now fills my mind as I lower the bodice of my dress to reveal my bra.

‘Take it off,’ he says. Damn, I spent nearly $500 on this upmarket underwear, and he’s not interested in it on my body!

‘Would you like to move to the bed?’ I ask.

‘You. Not me.’

Christ, he’s just going to watch, is he?

My dress is still half on, covering my lower torso and legs, while my breasts are on display, jiggling as I move. My small handbag is still hooked over one the of the straps of my gown; it knocks my leg. Now’s my chance to slip it into a drawer.

By the time I’m fully naked, I am exhausted. My mind’s racing at how I can swiftly complete this assignment and get out undetected. My legs and arms ache from all the sexy dancing.

Finally, he heaves his girth from the chair and plods towards me, on the bed. He’s still fully clothed—thankfully—but his neck is exposed. I’ll have no problem jabbing Jabba.

‘You’re delicious,’ he says. He’s drinking me in with his gaze. His lips pucker. He kisses my breasts. His sweaty head rests on my belly button. He sniffs deeply, then heads further south.

I am nauseated.

Reaching for my bag, I nearly tumble, but my fingertips clutch it. He stops whatever his lips are doing down below—honestly, has he never done this before?—to take off his trousers; his left foot appears to be caught in the cuff of his pants. While he’s figuring out the best way to extricate his foot, I take out the needle and in one swift, fluid motion I stick it in his neck.

Within seconds, he’s dead.

I dress quickly. Then, I leave the room, locking it before I shut the door. That ought to give me more time to escape before his body is discovered. As fast as I can, without arousing suspicion, I walk along the first-storey hall, down the stairs and out the wide front doors where my limo awaits.

Somehow, Barry’s in the back seat. ‘Done?’

‘Yes. Mission complete.’

‘Let’s get you the fuck outta here,’ Barry says.

Photo by Vita Vilcina on Unsplash

17 thoughts on “The Mission”

  1. What an excellent read Linda 🙂 I did have a moment where the boy in my sniggered – “This is my first real mission and it involves a large serving of femme fatale. Honestly, I don’t think I can pull it off.”
    One of your best ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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