Spy on Spy

Like at least two of its wealthy guests, the Hotel Belmont was to have a short but soulful life expectancy. It was a chalet set into the Furka Pass of the Swiss Alps, a mountainside covered by the Rhona Glacier. The ice completely surrounded the chalet: opening up at the top to let in the fantastic Swiss weather, with its year-round winter wonderland, and climbing up and skiing down the mountain’s peak. To reach the hotel required followed a twisting road that skirted the cliffs of the mountain and was actually carved through the glacier itself to get to the Belmont—surely one of the most phenomenal tunnels in all of Europe.

In time, though—less than twelve years, by most accounts—global warming would catch up with the Belmont. The glacier that so impressively pressed in on it, soaring up on all sides and plummeting down to make constant war with the mountain’s roots, was shrinking now. It would one day be gone, leaving a view of only grainy, dusty rock; a vertical quarry instead of the majestic, natural ice sculpture visitors were now treated to. A heartache for the owners, to be sure, but for now, it gave a stay at the Belmont a bittersweet twinge that Caity Kildaire quite liked.

She was one of the two guests with a short life expectancy, which she was well aware of. It wasn’t that she took drugs, drank, or smoked. She was in pristine health, actually, as her garb took great care to show off. Her skintight cigarette pants showed off the long, well-developed legs that promised and delivered lifetimes of ecstasy to both the men and the women that found their way into her thighs’ grip. Her dinner jacket, the same metallic gray, was cinched with three buttons between her breasts. A good thing, too: if only for the wives present and not their husbands. Underneath the jacket, she wore a blouse as slender and as clear as the tissue paper inside a wrapped gift, its sheerness showing off the tops of her creamy breasts and, lower, the rippling muscles of her belly. All the way to her large metal belt buckle, the contrast continued: silky femininity and butch musculature. Her legs had runner’s muscles in their firm thighs, her arms were thickened with power, and her shoulders were broad in a way that almost took away from her womanhood, but could not manage to overcome the sweetness of her features and the curves that her athletic body held onto.

In a way, she matched the décor. The Hotel Belmont had a sugar and spice, complimentary nature: lush in its austerity, sprawling in its spartan space, old-fashioned and yet with modern convenience cheating its way through the understated carpets, the minimalist woodwork, the classical furniture. It was a setting meant for reflection, both inward and outward, providing merely a frame for the beauty of both the towering mountain outside and the gorgeous patrons inside. 

Caity emphasized more with the outside. An avalanche, perhaps, or the winter storms that shut down all climbing and forced guests inside, as in the novels of Agatha Christie. She was in the same line of work as Dame Christie: someone who figured out how to kill people for a living. She worked for the CIA as an eliminator and she wondered how the many who drooled after her body would feel to know that each muscle group was a weapon, all able to kill. From her lacquered fingernails to the feet in her polished dress shoes.

Caity looked down now to where those polished dress shoes rested on black and white marble tile, 8,000 feet above sea level. She admired her faint reflection a moment in the floor’s freshly polished glare. Black and white. Sugar and spice. Life and death. Contrast. For every person she’d killed, she’d brought someone to sexual ecstasy. Often the same person. Her body could be seductive as well as deadly. It had to be, in her line of work. She wondered how many here would still be attracted to her if they knew of her body count. She wondered how many would consider the lethal chance worth it, at least as long as the possibility of death was preceded by le petit morte. 

None of them need to worry. She wasn’t on assignment now. She was on vacation. Or rather, therapy. ‘Resting up’ after a difficult assignment. Caity disagreed with the need for a rest cure. Her body was at its physical peak. Mentally and emotionally, she was ready for anything. In fact, she could feel herself atrophying. Skills slipping from her mind bit by bit. Learned motions deserting her well-trained muscles like rats from a sinking ship. If she could not go on another mission, she could at least stay in shape. Not by killing someone, of course. No one in the Agency committed unsanctioned hits. The other thing. The flipside. Life instead of death.

She looked through the crowd: the fur coats, the black tuxedos, the evening gowns and opera gloves. She could have any of them wrapped around her finger, from the most potent playboy to the most in-demand model. Caity wanted more than that. She wished to seduce a worthy foe—to dominate them with pleasure, make them her willing slave with nothing more than passion. Someone so skilled that she risked herself, body and soul, in trysting with them.

She got her wish. Her worthy opponent was easy to find. She stood out from the crowd like a goddess among clay. Gentila Jorda did not have the athleticism of Caity, even though she was the picture of health. Her skin had a natural, golden luster that Caity’s beachy tan couldn’t compete with. She was shorter than Caity, but more full-bodied, her birthright of voluptuous curves in a body sculpted by discipline. The dress she wore showed off her trim lines—alabaster white and light as chiffon, it clung to her body as bedsheets would tangle around a sleeper, silken tightness and sheerness arguing for the firm breasts that jutted proudly out in front of her, swaying with ripe naturalism about her every step. Her sparse waist—lost in the slack that fell from the impression her pendulous cleavage made in the dress—flared out exuberantly into womanly hips, a taut, round ass that wiggled and swung behind her, its juddering motion continuing down into the dress’s skirt, which seemed to swirl in constant motion around her striding thighs, never quite touching them. 

There was an openness, a sweetness to Gentila, An enthusiasm that bordered on innocence. She delivered the notion that her seductive motion—her every tempting step—was out of her control. Could she control the symmetry of her face, the plumpness of her lips, the wideness of her eyes? So little make-up touched her face: kittenish kohl around her dollish eyes, pink gloss on her full lips. Everything else as clear and as smooth as the skin of her arms, her tawny legs. Her hair flaxen, almost strawberry. Dyed? Perhaps, or perhaps some rogue heritage in her otherwise Mediterranean darkness. Would she give herself a coloring so lustrous, so decadent, or had she been born with it?—one of those people who would be a demi-god, a volcano sacrifice, a courtesan in another life.

The question of it all appealed to Caity. This woman could be all but a vestal virgin, or she could be as knowing and as masterful a seductress as Caity had ever met. She needed to draw that dress away from Gentila’s body as one would remove a tarp from some marble sculpture. She longed to taste Gentila as one looked at chocolates through a bakery’s window. She could even countenance losing their little sexual combat if it meant solving the riddle of this innocent temptress. 

Caity ran a hand through her own raven hair, as though comparing its cool feel to the molten blaze of Gentila’s golden mane. It felt almost masturbatory. That settled it. She had to feel the heat of another woman’s body, touch the wetness of another woman’s arousal. It was as if she had been starving for something, she knew not what, and now the smell of the very thing had wafted under her nose. 

She walked up to Gentila, so fearless that her boldness bordered on disdain, and took Gentila’s slender arm in her callused hand. “You need a drink,” she said firmly, and gave Gentila an insistent tug.

Gentila held firm—for the moment. “Are you buying?”

“Whatever you’re selling,” Caity replied. She started walking. Gentila trailed behind her, as pliant as driftwood being washed out to sea.

Caity led her to her room, a small, cozy space dominated by a queen-sized bed. The minibar was set below a large, ornate mirror, which led past the bed to a comfy nook of chairs and table. Beyond that were the French doors that led out onto the balcony, which boasted a set of rocking chairs looking out at the interplay of cracking ice and seeping clouds on top of the world.

Caity let go of Gentila and led her deeper into the room by sight alone—swiveling her own hips, unbuttoning her own jacket to let it hang loose to either side of her before she was at the bar, pouring for both of them. Gentila followed her past the bed, gliding a hand over the red comforter that covered the white bed like blood on top of innocence. Her hand came away, caressing the bedpost of the footboard before reaching out to take the drink Caity offered her. 

Turning to face Gentila displayed the paper-thin top Caity wore inside her opened jacket. She didn’t wear any bra, and as if to match her, Gentila took a deep breath, her breasts heaving against her daringly skimpy halter dress, the indentations of her nipples and the weight of her cleavage plain through the stretching expanse of fabric. Caity sipped her drink, letting her eyes roam over the wrinkled material that still captured so much of Gentila’s lovely body in endless softness, tautness—everywhere she looked she wanted to touch.

“Caity,” she said. “Caity Kildaire.”

Gentila sipped her drink. She rolled with the strength of it, eyes flashing as she registered the kick, but otherwise giving away nothing. When she spoke, her voice was sunny, California dreams, as warm as her bronzed skin. “Gentila Jorda.”

“Business or pleasure?”

“Not business,” Gentila answered. “And I don’t know if it’s a pleasure yet.”

“You don’t like the drink?”

“I’ve had better,” Gentila said as she drank more.

“It took me five years to work out that mix. You’re a hard woman to impress.”

“Not that hard. For someone who’s impressive.”

Caity changed tack with a long drag from her own glass. She kept it held up high, demonstrating to Gentila how much she’d drained, then reaching down with her other hand to grip the short hem of Gentila’s dress between her fingers. She rubbed the fabric, pulling it ever so slightly away from Gentila’s crotch to see the tight, secret space of her panties. 

“What kind of material is this?” she asked.

“Girlfriend material,” Gentila replied, unabashedly allowing Caity to pull the fabric away from her groin.

Caity slid closer to her, their breasts touching as she slipped her hand up Gentila’s skirt. She took hold of her panties and pulled that away from Gentila’s sex far enough to rub the crotch-band as she had Gentila’s skirt, picking up a telltale trace of wetness between her fingers.

“And this?” Caity asked.

Gentila turned slightly, dragging out the friction between their breasts. “Why don’t you taste it and find out?”

“Mmm.” Caity laughed, then bent her head to kiss at Gentila’s full breasts along the neckline of her dress, sucking at the soft, satin flesh as though each drop of Gentila’s sweat as a delicacy. “Not that hard to impress after all.”

“Keep impressing me,” Gentila challenged her, opening her thighs to give Caity all the freedom she needed to finger her.

Caity nosed Gentila’s dress aside, getting a nipple out in the open and trapping it in her lips even as she pulled Gentila’s panties aside and fingered into her. The blonde shivered, soft ripples of heat like the sun had been beating down on her for hours of tanning, running between the inside of her cunt and where Caity’s teeth tightened on her nipple.

“It’s been a long time,” Gentila gasped. “Too long.”

“Then let’s not keep you waiting anymore,” Caity murmured around Gentila’s engorged nipple.

Gentila laughed to herself. It’d been forty-eight hours since she’d fucked Alex Butterman. He’d been her mission and seduction brought with it the promise of a kill. That and his seven-inch erection had convinced her he could do whatever he wanted with her. She’d become watery in the knees at the feel of his aroused cock pressed against her, just thinking of it inside her pussy making her clench and throb. But he’d figured out who she was before they’d finished and so she’d had to finish him ahead of schedule. Of course, she’d masturbated since then—so why was she so turned on? Between death and sex, how much did it take to satisfy her?

Caity suckled harder at her nipple, tonguing it and gnawing it in turn. Gentila shook, the ice cubes rattling in her drink. Caity stopped savoring her nipple to nuzzle against the slope of her breast, looking up at her wryly. “You’d better finish that. Or at least put it down.”

“I’d hate to dislodge you,” Gentila replied.

Caity kissed her way back down Gentila’s tit, stopping with her lower lip hovering over Gentila’s areola. “Then drink up.”

Gentila raised the glass to her lips and Caity curled her fingers inside her, the pads of her pointer and forefinger finding the rough texture of her G-spot and turning it into screaming insanity with one long touch. Gentila didn’t give away how the sensation ran riot inside her, except to gargle and let some of her drink spill down her chin. 

“Oh no. Whoopsie-daisy,” Caity said laconically, now swiping her tongue underneath Gentila’s breast to collect the sweat that salted her delicate skin. “I’ll be up in a minute.”

“No need,” Gentila retorted. Holding the glass above her chest, she poured out its contents onto her breast. Caity sucked at her nipple, slurping away the liquor that ran into her mouth. Both of them sighed in unison. 

“Hold your dress up,” Caity ordered, and when Gentila did, Caity placed her own glass over Gentila’s belly button, pouring it down her pubis, into her panties, rivulets of it running down her thighs—all vulnerable targets for Caity to lap up, smear her face in, anoint herself with like the climax of some holy, bacchanalian ritual. 

When Caity’s face was flushed with liquor both inside and out, she came to her full height, took Gentila’s hand in hers, and lowered both their arms. Dropping her glass and Gentila’s to the carpeted floor. The dwindling ice cubes tinkled inside the glass, but they were beyond that now. Caity worked her way out of her jacket. Gentila undid her halter and let her dress puddle to the floor. Her panties were askew, around her thighs. Caity left them on, picking up Gentila, carrying her the short distance to the bed, and thrusting her down to the mattress. 

Then she took control. Her hand darted down between Gentila’s legs, the pad of her middle finger dancing across the deep wet cleft of her womanhood, Gentila squealing and writhing with each sparking touch between finger and sex. And the more Caity did it to her, the more aroused Caity became.

“Y-yes, Caity, oh—that feels wonderful!” Gentila moaned. “Keep doing it… Unnhh! I think I’m gonna come!”

Caity moved her fingers a little higher, rubbing them against Gentila’s clit so that it nearly burst, buzzing with hot sensation. Gentila greedily rocked her hips upward, rubbing herself against the rest of Caity’s jerking fingers and getting more searing pleasure for her trouble.

“You are,” Caity told her firmly, smirking as her lover—her victim—whimpered. “In fact, you’re almost there…”

Gentila reached up to touch her, but with her free hand, Caity slapped her touch away—actually pinned both of Gentila’s crossed wrists between her breasts and held her down as she fingered her. This wasn’t the time for Gentila to reciprocate, though she would, once she’d learned her place. For now, Caity wanted to utterly devastate her. To show her all that could be inflicted on her when they were in bed together.

She sped up, fingers pistoning inside Gentila, thumb pressed down on her clit, the weight making Gentila pant and whimper with pleasure and the anticipation of more. She closed her eyes, forgetting everything but the excitement rushing through her. With Caity’s hand lashing at her like a whip, the intensity built and built until it felt like she would explode.

Gentila allowed herself to flow with the lusty instincts Caity inspired in her, thrusting her hot cunt up to take in Caity’s fingers and rut against her thumb. She took Caity’s hand as deep as she could inside her passage, clamping down around the intrusion as she came in heat, pressure, light, sweetness. As she squirted—tightness, relief, release—Caity rubbed her inner folds very fast, while dragging her thumbnail across Gentila’s engorged clit very slow. The friction did its job. Gentila crooned as her orgasm doubled, seemed to suck back into impossible tightness and then explode all over again from her stiff little clitoris.

“Ohhhh! Caity! You did it!” she wailed.

Caity grinned, delighting in every aspect of Gentila’s submission, the weak-willed way Gentila savored being fucked like a bitch in heat. Not a match for her after all. But fun in her own way. 

Gentila rocked in Caity’s grip, in her fucking, wailing with ecstasy and drenching Caity up to the forearm with her sizzling honey. The climax went on and on, not stopping until Caity decided to let her stop. Then Caity rolled off of her, leaving Gentila panting and gasping, as though coming on Caity’s fingers had been as strenuous for her as lifting a car.

After catching her breath—quickly, at least, Gentila was in excellent shape—the Spaniard let out a jubilant howl of laughter that reminded Caity of a hyena. “Ooooh! That was nice! That was really fun! Mamacita—girls must let you do that all the time. No wonder you have so much practice.”

“Speaking of practice,” Caity said, coming up from the sheets like a shark surfacing, cutting through the air to kneel astride Gentila’s head. “It’s your turn. Let’s see how you return the favor.”

“With pleasure,” Gentila said to her gorgeous rival, voice husky and low.

It was an act of unabashed arrogance, straddling Gentila’s face like this, allowing her unrestricted access to Caity’s most vulnerable, intimate place. With an advantage like that, Caity could win any sexual battle. But she was cocky after how she’d made Gentila climax. In the little game of orgasms that existed only in her head, she saw no way that Gentila could catch up—make her feel anything like the climax she’d hit Gentila with.

Such were the thoughts of women as they were lulled into a false sense of security.