To say we were subdued was an understatement. Pixie, Oli and I were, for us, unusually quiet as the late night Eurostar sped towards Paris. I can’t speak for the other two, but I, Aussie Annie, joker and life and soul of the party, was verging on being overwhelmed by what I had just put my hand up for.

Like Frodo with the ring or Harry with Voldemort, I hadn’t sought out that burden. But on that train to the city of love, I knew that Roger was right. I had been chosen, there was no alternative, and my fate was bound to the woman known as Whispering Death.

Earlier on in the evening we had made an incongruous foursome in the back of the Selfridge’s shoe department. Oli and I were in equal measure disheveled by our vigorous fucking and spooked by realising that there was something evil approaching our friend and lover Mel.

Pixie was equally perturbed by the danger to Mel and our boss Miss Sinn. And she fussed, oh my God did she fuss, asking herself how she could extract Mel from danger; but answer came there none.

Roger, as we had christened Oli’s secret service boss, was calm, icy calm, after he had shocked us by admitting he had asked the PM about whether she would authorise the assassination of the Russian bitch, Whispering Death. But we all knew that no sensible PM would begin dishing out assassination authorisations for some baddie, because where would she stop once she had started, the leader of the Opposition?

He had let Pixie fuss, and Oli and I recover from our shock, and then he had gently spoken.

“Ladies, we know very little about the woman they call Whispering Death. She is clearly one of the up and coming stars of the Russian Mafia. Which I imagine means she is both respected and hated in equal measure.”

Oli whimpered, not for the first time, “What have I done?”

And Roger soothingly replied, “Given us an advantage Oli. We now know Whispering Death is in Paris and that her target is Mel.”

“But Mel could be already dead,” Pixie stammered.

“No I doubt it. Look Miss Hoffmann, remember your friend Emm, the Oscar winning actress.”

Pixie nodded and Roger continued.

“Well if there was an Oscars award for best newcomer baddie of the year, I suspect Whispering Death would win it. And the reason she is so good is that she isn’t stupid. And that means she never ever hits on someone until she has managed every risk. Mel is safe in the short term.”

“In the longer term?” Pixie asked as a tear slide down her cheek. I reached for her hand just as a knot gripped my stomach. That was my premonition where our conversation with Roger was going.

“Miss Hoffmann,” Roger continued, “The best way to avoid a ripple in the water of a pond is not to throw a stone into said pond. I have ordered all surveillance of websites and Whispering Death to cease. Ash is at this moment removing the UK’s digital footprint from anything to do with this case.”

“But Mel,” Pixie observed.

“Indeed Mel,” Roger continued, “We are not abandoning her. But we will do nothing, and Whispering Death will come to think there is no risk. She will feel she can then strike I am sure, at Mel and probably Miss Sinn. And then she has seen your photo, Mary Poppins.”

There was a sharp intake of breath from the other two and Roger looked at me significantly and produced a pack of cards from his pocket, before continuing, “For the moment she doesn’t know that we know. That is one of the only two advantages we have. These cards can tell a story about our second advantage.”

“A fucking tarot reading,” I observed.

Roger ignored me and flicked over the first card and it was the Queen of Spades. “Whispering Death is our Queen of Spades, black is appropriate as it is the colour of her soul. In most games spades are generally regarded as a trump card. But there is a more important card isn’t there Annie?”

I nodded, thinking of the Joker, though I really had no idea where Roger was going with this.

Roger flicked over another card and it was the Joker. “I don’t think the Joker as it is actually a Joker; we need a card that can dominate the Queen of Spades.”

I felt a shiver. I gripped Pixie’s hand, she gripped mine and mouthed the words: “I love you.” I knew. So, by the look in her deep brown eyes did she. I looked at her, then Oli, and finally, somehow, at Roger. I did not want this. No, I most surely did not. Nor did Pixie. But I knew. The trumpet was playing the Last Post.

“I would that this cup would pass me by,” I said sighing deeply, “but I see I must do it.”

Pixie and Oli both looked at me, eyes screaming no.

But Roger just gently asked, “Why Annie?”

And from deep in my subconscious the answer arose:

“Because the next card is the Queen of Hearts, and it is therefore my destiny.”

Roger turned over the next card and it was, of course, the Queen of Hearts.

And he continued:

“Good and evil are always locked in struggle. Mostly evenly matched except, that is, for the advantage good gets from the bursa escort power of love and righteousness. I could ask Commissioner Dick’s fine lesbian SWAT team, and each would volunteer. But Whispering Death may be a match for them. But with Miss Sinn, Mel and Pixie compromised, you are the only one who can play the Queen of Hearts Annie. That is our second advantage.”

“But I can’t kill, Roger. I can’t even deal with Huntsman spiders when they come inside at home.”

“I know, you would be no match for her in a fight. If the PM had authorised assassination, we could only have used snipers.”

“Then …” I started but the words died on my lips.

“The Russian Mafia,” Pixie observed, “we can get in touch with Ekaterina, Emm’s Mistress. She can do it for us, Yes, Annie, yes.” She was excited, relieved, and almost stopped crying. Then she looked at Roger.

“Exactly Miss Hoffmann,” Roger replied.

“Okay, I get that, but how on earth can we do it without creating another feud which puts another Mafia boss on our tails? Ekaterina can help, but she can’t deal with all the Russian Mafias.”

“You are, as ever, little Miss Hoffmann, on the money, but Her Majesty’s Secret Service has thought of that too.”

My goodness, I thought, he was smiling – even if it was like the gleam of silver plate on a coffin lid.

“Oli will you explain to Pixie and Annie what your first student job was.”

“I worked in a tattoo parlour, boss. And if I may say so I became kind of accomplished.”

And that, with the addition of one piece of James Bond magic, was enough for a plan to be concocted. One that just might work and only involved the four people in the shoe shop in Selfridges. Roger was firm, Mel and Miss Sinn must not know, for fear of inadvertently alerting Whispering Death.

“But finding Whispering Death in Paris is like looking for a needle in an hay stack,” I then observed.

Roger raised an eyebrow, and replied, “If I might channel Miss Sinn, a double fucking first at Cambridge and no fucking clue.”

That broke the tension just enough for us all to lightly smile.

And then he continued, “Miss Hoffmann, my niece recently asked me whether she should accept an offer from Cambridge or one from Oxford. Let’s see if you can help her with her decision. Is this a needle in a haystack?”

Pixie smiled, obviously enjoying the confidence Roger had placed in her intelligence, “No Roger. If we follow Angie and Mel we will come across Whispering Death also following them. I think I would recommend Oxford.”

“Not we Pixie,” Roger replied, “You must not be seen as we don’t know if she will recognise Mary Poppins. Oli is the only person that we know for sure has seen her, and she must do the identification. Remind me again Oli what she looks like.”

“Blond, good looking between 5 6 and 5 8. I would know her anywhere.”

“For fuck sake Oli she may be disguised, and that description is also a description of you and of Annie.”

“Don’t micro manage me boss, I will positively identify the bitch.”

“Don’t you dare get overconfident, any of you. This is a high risk operation,” Roger had concluded.

We were all replaying the scene in our heads as the train sped across the Normandy landscape, shrouded in the darkness. It was a metaphor for our plight.

“Can the plan work?” Pixie looked at me. “It is so fucking risky.”

Miss Hoffmann swearing, well that proved things were tense. She only swore when she was being used, bless her. I looked at her:

“Pix, I know you are there, and if they get me, get them, spare nothing.”

The tears welled in her eyes.

“Miss Annie, if they get you I will fucking rip them apart limb from limb – one fucking bomb.”

She looked so fierce.

“I love you, Annie, and this is brave of you.”

We kissed.

“Get a room,” jeered Oli, but her heart was not in it.

After checking into our hotel we fell into a king sized bed, Oli accepting Pixie’s invitation to join us. Anyone who thinks that gymnastic style sex took place in that bed has never undertaken a life or death operation. Rather, there was a lot of snuggling whispering and cuddling. Most of it directed my way as Oli and Pixie built up my confidence.

Fortunately, Pixie in her usual super-organised way had given Mel an itinerary for her time in Paris. And so we knew she was scheduled to talk a walk along the Seine early the next day. So Oli and I sat in a cafe, hidden under an awning, and were served delicious and very expensive croissants and coffee. And we soon saw Mel and Miss Sinn walking past, holding hands for fuck’s sake.

And ten seconds later Oli said, “That is her, lime green blouse and short skirt.”

“Fuck,” I said, “She is good looking. And oh my God what an arse.”

Oli looked at me strangely, as I leapt to my feet and followed the woman we knew as Whispering Death. First impressions count and my first impressions were total physical attraction. Whispering Death was, looks wise, my sort bursa escort bayan of woman.

I had time to watch that sexy arse sway as she followed them back to their hotel. Pixie texted that the French police had put a surveillance camera in their room, so as soon as we got to the hotel, I watch the sexy Russian take a seat at the bar, and went to the Concierge, who was expecting me.

With one camera on Whispering Death, and the other on Mel and Miss Sinn, I was suffering an overload of lesbian lust.

Miss Sinn was no sooner in the room that she was at Mel’s feet, sucking her toes. It looked like Mel was ordering her to strip, and within seconds, Angie was down to her sexy lingerie. So that, I thought, was it, the great dominating Miss Sinn was submissive to Mel. I shivered, my crotch, already moist, got wetter as I watched Miss Sinn play with herself while Mel whipped her gorgeous tits. Lucky bitch, I thought, before turning my attention back to the danger.

There was nothing for it, leaving the Sinn girls sinning, I sashayed into the bar and ordered a vodka.

I raised myself to the bar seat, showing a generous expanse of leg and stocking top.

“You were following me earlier,” she said neutrally, but with an implied menace, namely that I had better have a good reason for following her.

“I am,” I replied, “You have a fantastic arse. And you are so gorgeous.”

“Australian I take it, arse is so not what the English say.”

She looked me up and down, for all the world looking like she was deeming whether or not I was worthy of further conversation. I was calm on the outside, but a coiled spring of nervous tension on the inside, in case she didn’t find me attractive enough.

“Yes, in Paris on my own for a break, spending daddy’s money,” I simpered, conveying wealth and that I could hardly be associated with any plot.

“You are a good looking thing. I am busy with the task I am on this afternoon and will be very task focused tomorrow too. But I imagine you like clothes shopping.”

“Yes,” I said, which was a totally genuine response.

“Well let’s test ourselves. I am free this evening. You like my arse, I like your long legs and big tits. Let’s meet for a drink later and see if we have dressed sufficiently impressively enough to take things further.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mel and Miss Sinn emerge from the lift and walk away from us. The Russian bitch had too, and she concluded our conversation with, “Hotel Ritz bar, 7pm. See you there.”

And she turned on her heel and I watched her gorgeous arse walk away from me and realised that my cunt had just leaked so badly that my knickers were a sopping mess. It was, I concluded later, a case of lust at first sight.

Back at our hotel Oli and I began the task of finding the perfect outfit in one afternoon. We soon established which was the most exclusive boutique but when I rang they were clear that I needed to be referred.

“For fuck’s sake,” I screamed at Pixie, “They want a reference before they will take my fucking money.”

“That is Haute Couture for you darling,” she replied.

“High up their fucking arse you mean. For God sake I need to dress to impress and a fucking department store will not do.”

Yes, later on we giggled, as that was the moment I lost it and descended into that circle of hell where you feel you aren’t good enough. Fortunately, Pixie knew what to do and she rang her friend Emm, the Oscar winning actress. And whatever happens, when an A-list actress requests admission to an A-list fashion house, happened.

Thus it was that Oli and I were greeted unctuously at what Mel would call a retail establishment, but which I am sure if I used those words would get me shown the door. Oli and I enjoyed our shopping and soon selected something perfect for the occasion, and the dress and matching shoes were soon back in our hotel room.

Pixie informed us, as Oli was helping me with my make-up, that she had spoken to Emm’s mistress about the other matter, and so I prepared myself knowing that all was in train and my nemesis awaited

After Oli and Pixie had styled my hair, I was made to bend over. And Oli and Pixie, after a little debate as to who wanted to do it, shared the task of inserting the James Bond magic that the UK secret service had given us up my arse, Pixie holding my cheeks over and lubing my arse, and Oli having the fun of thrusting it up there and making me gasp.

And I was ready. Picking up the playing card that Roger had given me, telling me he wanted it back in his deck of cards on my return, I kissed the Queen of Hearts and passed it to Pixie for safekeeping.

“See you soon my love. And you Oli. Just got to nail this Russian bitch and life will return to normal,” I said as I opened the door, adding, “Wish me luck. And for those that believe in the power of prayer, now would be a good time to pray.” Pixie crossed herself.

The taxi arrived at the Ritz and I stepped out, bursa merkez escort the split in my dress momentarily displaying my long sun-kissed legs. The seconds ticked by as I contemplated my chosen battle dress of a ruby red diaphanous dress, a black lace G-string, and six inch heels. With of course my weapon of choice, a flexible syringe of the UK secret service’s finest sleeping drug up my arse.

I was at ease with my choices and so, model like, I walked into the hotel, the dress reflecting the sway of my hips and movement of my breasts. I knew I looked the part, the sheer material, advertising luxury, confidence and the fact that I had nothing to hide. Heads turned but I didn’t acknowledge them, my focus was on the single combat that was about to occur between me and the woman known as Whispering Death. I wanted her to have the impression that the fact I was leaving nothing to the imagination was my sign that she had nothing to fear.

In my mind I was accompanied by a legion, a legion that history idolised. David approaching Goliath, the tradition of the samurai and the knights, and as this was France, the Chanson de Roland. But that history weighed as lightly on me as my gossamer dress. The Queen of Hearts, reflecting love and righteousness, was their calling card as it was mine. Pix had said love would prevail, and I had to hope the little darling was right.

In Russia they have a saying, bash na bash, meaning one-on-one, which traditionally substitutes a fight between champions for a full-scale battle and so avoids the sorrow of internecine war. The Russian bitch who awaited me was no respecter of her tradition, if I didn’t succeed, then those that I loved would continue to be at risk. So succeed I must.

She was at the bar, languid, with the slit of her stunning dress, black of course, displaying her long pale legs. And she looked, and there is no other comparator, like a goddess, perhaps Aphrodite or Venus. Like those Goddesses, she radiated power, transcending the mere mortal as if her sexuality was blessed by the divine. Her beauty and raw sexual animal magnetism, were a drug; addictive. I was being drawn into her web even though I knew that inside that gorgeous exterior, there was a vacuum in the place where her metaphorical heart should have been. What if my lust betrayed me? What if that at the critical moment I chose not to do what I had come here to do?

And I felt my body stir as I walked towards her, nipples now pokies, pressing against my dress, cunt juices damping my thong obviously inadequate for the strength of what I was feeling. Lust, I felt lust, but not like I had ever felt before, this was lust refined, distilled, and concentrated to its purest essence. I was overwhelmed by my need for her to want me, to take me, to fuck me even though not a single word had yet passed between us.

Did that, I shivered, mean there was the potential for betrayal, that my lust would leave me vulnerable? Would it triumph over love? I know even Pixie and Mel must have had their doubts when I told them of the strength of my lust. Was it possible that it was so powerful it would outweigh my love for them.

The answer, even at the moment, is what it is now when I get horny, no. Lust is like the summer leaves, beautiful then gorgeously colourful, and then they are gone with the first hint of the cold of winter. But love nourishes you through that cold, and is there season by season, perhaps never as vibrantly rich again, but just the perfect food for a girl’s soul. Love, I knew then, as they know now, is stronger than lust, and I would never sacrifice what I have with them, not even for the sexiest cunt on the planet, and Whispering Death certainly fitted that bill on that night at the Ritz.

My sartorial efforts to impress the Russian bitch didn’t go unrewarded. She smiled, indicated a stool next to her for me to perch on and said, “You look magnificent. I can see that you are attracted to me, but let us be clear that it is a long time since I have been stirred as much as I was by your approach.”

“There is,” I replied, “a glory and a joy, in instantaneous desire. And I will have the Krüg, thank you.”

With an imperious wave of her hand, two glasses of Krüg were delivered just as she continued, “One glass my love. And then my room awaits. It is a long time since I have felt as needy as I do when thinking about your cunt.”

I knew then that the first part of our dance of death had been quickly and satisfactorily completed. What remained was the sex and the decision I had to make as to when I would chance my arm.

Conversation flowed warmly and seductively. We both knew physical desire, and we both knew it was reflected back in each other’s eyes. And one flute of champagne later, we slipped off our stools and headed upstairs to her room.

The door to her room had barely closed, when her arms went around me and, recognising instantly that she liked to lead, I surrendered to the woman who will, maybe, be the lust of my life.

Our first kiss went on and on, setting off skyrockets of pleasure in my brain and signals to my cunt that caused my juices to flow. I was enveloped in a wave of lust so powerful that nothing else seemed to have ever mattered. My experience of life seemed to focus on how I should please this woman and how she could please me.

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