Persuasive Lips (2 page)

She ran across dimly lit concrete and up the platform ramp where the President’s train sat ready. He routinely boarded here, out of the eyes of the general public, hiding his disability. Out of breath, heart thumping wildly, she winced in pain when she grabbed the handrail of the olive green presidential rail car and hoisted herself up the steps. She opened the observation car door and entered the dark board room. Dizziness overtook her and she dropped to the floor, out for the count.

* * *

Della felt the forward momentum as she opened her eyes. Blinking at her surroundings, she saw the glow of a gaslight on the wall of the cramped room. She observed a desk, typewriter, and a little fan oscillated in the corner of the ceiling. Her nose wrinkled at the scent of mothballs and Ivory soap. Shadows zoomed by the window. She realized was on a moving train.

She shivered.
Cold, I’m so cold.
As she tried to hug herself, her arms wouldn’t move. They were tied to a bedpost. “No!”

As she writhed against the bondage, she noticed her nipples standing at full attention. She was dressed in her white garter belt, stockings, fancy red stilettos she’d never seen before and as she kicked her leg up to examine one, she realized the stockings were silk with a perfect seam in the back. A wave of fear, embarrassment and confusion passed through her. She seemed to be in a fog, her brain felt woozy as if she’d been sipping champagne.

The door from the adjoining compartment flung open. With great relief, she identified Secret Service Agent Ashley Jones. “Hurry Jones, hurry. Untie me.”
Oh, no! I’m naked!

He shut the dark wood door behind him and smiled as he leaned against it. His eyes lingered over her generously proportioned breasts as he approached the bed.

“Is the President all right?” Della asked, fearful of the answer.

“He’s fine. The train will reach its appointed destination intact
and on time, so long as you cooperate.”

“What? Untie me. No! Cover me up first. Then untie me.”
What’s he talking about?

“Nah, not in the plans.” He licked his middle finger and ran it from her hairline to her chin.

“What are you doing?” She tried to pull away and felt her shoulder tingling. “I was shot!”

“Yes you were. Just a graze. We cleaned you up and gave you a little injection to help ease your...”

“Ease my what? Who cleaned me up? Who tied me up? Where are my clothes? Who shot me?” She let out a loud wail which he silenced with a wadded silk stocking. Not shoving it into her mouth deep enough to cause her discomfort, just far enough to muffle the noise.

“Now, there will be no more of that. Nobody will come to your aid. Nobody is here in the passenger car except of course the President and his two guests. Would you like them to come to your rescue and see you in this provocative pose?”

Della shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut. She crossed her legs and clenched her thighs. She’d absolutely die of embarrassment if President Roosevelt or Alfred Hitchcock found her all tied up and dressed for...
for dirty sex
. Well, there was a thirty-three and a third percent chance Mrs. Hitchcock would be the one to come to her aid. Della writhed on top of the cold white sheet.
As if that would be any better. Mrs. Hitchcock would probably faint dead away from the shock.

He removed the gag.

“Turn the fan off. Why is it so cold, it’s still July isn’t it?”

“The low temperature becomes you, Miss Davis.”

Focus. Focus, Della Davis. What does Jones want? Make him think you’ll give it to him and find an opportunity to knock him out and flee.

She opened her eyes. Agent Jones shook out the silk stocking, moist with her saliva, and dangled it over her breasts, tickling her nipples.

Miss Davis squirmed, trying to get away from it. “What’s going on, Jones? You could have asked me on a date and at least bought me dinner and a movie if you wanted to make whoopee. This is a little too theatrical, don’t you think?”

He lowered his head and softly pressed his lips against hers. She didn’t return the pressure. He pulled away and smiled. “No time for dinner and a movie. We have so much work to do.”

“Work?”

“Of course. This mission is of the utmost importance. Top level hush-hush.”

“Mission?” Della searched the murky cobwebs in her mind. Nope, there was no mission that she had been privy to. Maybe she was dreaming. Yes, that was it. She was dreaming she’d gotten the promotion to the O.S.S. and was a woman for her country.

He took the manila envelope from the desk chair and unwound the red thread closure. He removed the onion skin pages and fluttered them over her stomach. Then down over her crotch. The soft breeze carrying her scent caused her to squirm. Hmm...she’d never smelled anything in a dream.
Okay Della Davis. You’ve been kidnapped. And drugged with something or the other. This is no naughty nocturnal mind interlude. It’s real.

Agent Jones interrogated her. “Just what was it that was so important to keep you so late at the office typing?”

Denial. Plausible denial. It’s all in code. No way could he know about the impending siege in the Northern Mariana Islands.

“You caught me. I have a side job typing smut for...”
think Della Davis, think...
“Mr. Hitchcock pays me handsomely to type up scripts to stag films.”
Yeah, that’ll work.

“Is that so? Well now, I’d never suspect the stodgy old bloke of such mischief. Hiring the President’s secretary for such a tawdry task is just deplorable. I shall bring this to the Commander in Chief’s attention right away.”

“Wait.”
I can’t get Hitchcock in trouble. It would ruin him. And I adore his films. If only the President had been apprised of the current cryptology in use... But, no, gosh, of course he could never be. What would his wife think? Oh, his wife is the salt of the earth. She’d understand it’s for the good of the world. Wait a minute
; my thoughts are way off the task.
“What was it that you asked me?”

“Exactly.”

“Hunh?” She was so cold. And thirsty. “I’m really cold, will you be so good as to untie me and direct me to my clothes and get me a drink of water? No, hot coffee. Yes. Be a dear and go down to the dining car and fetch me a pot of coffee and then when you return, I’ll be dressed and we can discuss this matter like the routine business...government business which it is.”

Agent Jones cupped her breasts in his large hands and kneaded them in an erotic circular motion as she lay still, bracing herself.

He said, “I’ll warm you up in the way you’ve been dreaming I would.” His voice meant business.

Isn’t he full of himself?
Not that she hadn’t had a few rouge fantasies
about him late at night, coming to her office with his predictable sack of Tiny Tavern hamburgers. But he couldn’t know about that.
Could he?

“Stop. Please stop. I need to get dressed and we’ll have coffee and talk like two coworkers, colleagues, fellow patriotic Americans. It’s really a simple, cute story.”

Her heartbeat quickened as did her breath. She tried to keep her mind off of her captor’s unwanted abuse, but my, was he skilled. She fought the pleasure as the compartment magically warmed.

“Please remove your hands.”

He did. “For now. But you’ll be begging me for them later.”

“Be a good boy and untie me and produce my clothes and fetch me a hard drink...hot drink, I mean...”

“Down girl. So you want a hard drink do you now?” He pressed his midsection against her leg and she felt his patriotic member as he lightly slid it down her thigh, stopping at the knee.

A zing of desire ran through her. Good girls didn’t taste what she suddenly craved. “No, I meant coffee. Or tea will work. Hot cocoa? Broth? Any hot beverage will do.”

Agent Jones pivoted to the closet, opened the door and removed an oversized ice bucket chilling a six pack of beer. He set it on the floor, removed a circular ice cube and traced the waistband of her garter with it. She gasped and trembled as melted water ran down her sides.

“I said I was cold. I need to cover up and...”

“Miss Davis, you’re mouth says cold, your curves say molten.”

“What exactly is it that you want from me? You have the script.” Her voice cracked again. “You caught me. I’m a bad girl. Why this elaborate interrogation method? Don’t you realize what trouble you’ll be in when they find out you’ve kidnapped one of the President’s secretaries?”

“Oh, they know.”

“Who knows?”

“They do.”

“They who?”

He leaned down and whispered, “You’re being filmed, Miss Davis. Make sure you put in an extra good performance if you want your Academy Award. Make lots of pleasurable expressions. Talk dirty to me.” He licked her earlobe, tracing the small fake garnet earring.

She shuddered.
No. He has to be joshing me. Or is he? Oh my God, Does Alfred Hitchcock really direct those kind of movies? Eww! Is that fat bald man watching me?

Agent Jones unbuttoned his suit coat, grabbed her waist and lifted her behind off of the bunk, pulling her toward the edge of the bed.

“Stop. What are you doing?”
He is so strong.

“Making room.”

“Making room for what?” Her eyes swept the small private train compartment, searching for the camera lens.
He is just fooling with me. Messing up my mind. So that he can have his perverted way with me. How long until I can escape? Do I want to escape? Why didn’t I listen to Mother and get a job at the airplane factory?

“I’m making room on the mattress for the typewriter.”

“What?”

“You’re going to type out exactly what you did this evening and then below it you will decode it.”

“But I don’t have a copy of the encryption key from the girls at the Office of Strategic Services.”

“Surely you remember the gist of the communication.”

“Nope. Can’t help you. Won’t help you.”

He rolled a sheet of paper into the carriage and moved the typewriter to the bed.

Della watched in disbelief.
My whole life is typing. I can’t believe I even have to type when I’m kidnapped. It’s just not fair. Not fair at all. I can do other things besides type. I have a very clever intellect. I just need an opportunity to blossom.

Jones shoved a beer bottle in the pewter opener screwed into wall near the closet door. He popped the cap off and tossed it into the typewriter keys. His eyes met hers as he took a long pull.

The train honked and whistled through a grade crossing. As it picked up speed, Della shifted her weight, trying hard to stay on the edge of the bed as the locomotive bumped and jostled her and the typewriter around.

“I can’t type with my hands tied up.”

“Now, see, you’re thinking logically. I knew you’d
come
around.” The emphasis he placed on the word come made her very uncomfortable.

He took the first page of the document and held it over her face, an inch from her nose. “Read this to me.”

She shook her head and wriggled, kicking him down as she fell off the bed. Her arms were above her head, tied to the bed rail
by two pairs of stockings knotted into long tethers. The silk slid down the brass rail as she landed on top of him, her rear end firmly planted on his chest.

Thrashing with the silken bondage, Della struggled to loosen the ties sufficiently for her escape. She finally stopped trying when she realized her bottom now hovered over his face. He circled her inner thighs with his tongue, exploring the outer reaches of her secret universe. A jolt of feminine awareness singed through her. She raised her bottom.

“No! I mean...I’m sorry. Excuse me for sitting on your face.”

She clambered off of him, contorting and twisting her arms. Her injured shoulder screamed. She winced.

He rolled from under her and helped untangle his captive by releasing one tether, the arm closest to her wound. He helped her stand up. “How is that feeling?”

“It hurts. Are you sure it was just a flesh wound?”

“Yup. Here, have a beer.”

He removed a second bottle from the melting ice and opened it. He handed her the cool alcohol and tossed this cap into the typewriter keys too.

She took a long guzzle. The Miller High Life tasted so good. It occurred to her that she could untie her other hand.

He removed his navy blue suit jacket, revealing a pistol in his tan leather shoulder holster.

Perhaps she shouldn’t untie herself just yet. She certainly didn’t want to be shot twice in one night. Della felt ninety-nine percent sure Agent Jones meant no violent harm to her. She wasn’t quite sure what this game was, nor if she was completely offended by it. Honestly, this was a rush. Her fantasies coming to life. She loved the smell of danger in the air. And it smelled like Secret Service Agent Ashley Jones. Like Ivory soap and lime aftershave. The mothball scent had dissipated, thank goodness.

He hung his coat on a hook on the back of the closet door and removed his black necktie. It was a clip-on. Cops wore clip-ons so thugs couldn’t strangle them. He tucked it into a pocket of his jacket then unbuttoned the top button of his white shirt. Grabbing his bottle from the floor, he guzzled the cold beer as he stared at her lips around the neck of the brown glass. His gaze shot down her body, lingering on her crotch, then down her legs to the harlot stilettos.

Her crush on Agent Jones had begun the very first day she’d laid eyes on him. He had been snacking on hamburgers and martinis with President Roosevelt in the oval office when she walked in to deliver a Congressional bill. Della smiled, remembering the bolt of electricity that rumbled through her at the first site of his chiseled face. She wanted to feel the zing again. She wanted him to touch her. Down there.

Della decided to go along with his program and see how it played out. “I’m not going to be able to type on that thing if you keep throwing things on the keys to jam them up. I’m good enough at jamming them myself when I get going. I type a hundred and twenty words a minute you know.”