He has done it again. This three brain cell moronic moron of a premier league footballer sitting next to me who earns more in a week than I do in three years of hard work. HAS DONE IT AGAIN!

Part One.

He has done it again. This three brain cell moronic moron of a premier league footballer sitting next to me who earns more in a week than I do in three years of hard work. HAS DONE IT AGAIN!

Tight lipped I resist the urge to send my lightly tanned smooth and soft elbow at speed into the side of his face knocking him and a few of his teeth out at the same time. I need him to get me into the party at Her Müllers Spanish castle. Instead, I carefully lift his hand from my stockinged thigh for the third time this evening in the limo and place it on his leg.

He turns to me grinning. As if I, had just put my hand on his, leg. “Later, ay Pet!”

I force a smile, take my hand away and look down at my knees. Shimmering glamorous old fashioned creamy nylon stockings covers them. Moving the morons hand from my leg has let the sneaky sod curl his fingers under my sparkling gold dress and move the hem further up my legs showing an inch of the band of my stocking tops. So that was what the shit was up to. I pull my dress back down my legs and do a quick sideways glance at his face to see a satisfied grin there as he keeps his head up facing forward while his eyes are glued down and across at my knees and thighs. I can feel my face burning. I look up and see the driver is grinning to himself and realise the mirror is angled down so he can look at my legs as well and not to see out the rear window. Jeezeus! Men!

Crap. What am I thinking? I am a guy! Though dressed like this you would not think so. It’s only because I am lent back in the limo’s soft leather seat that I can even see down there anyway. If I was sitting up-right a pair of C-cup boobs would be in the way. Especially given the top of this dress with its wide Vee cut goes way down past my boobs. A little gold chain holds the two sides together to protect my modesty. Another thing was that they promised me drugs would stop any sexual response from my body. So why did I have two very sensitive rock hard very female fat stubby nipples clearly pressed against my dress for everyone to see. And How In Hell, after eight years of hard graft in MI6, did it come to this, being groped by a Neanderthal over paid footballer. And why when I was so clearly pissed off as hell about it was my body responding to his touch!

Six weeks ago I had been on an undercover operation about to have a full English breakfast in the North London café I had been getting myself know in, when half a dozen cops burst through the door, tazered me, and, and YES, the fuckers tazered ME, and bundled me handcuffed out of the café into the back of a police van, and drove off before I had time to recover.

About an hour and a half later the van stopped and the doors opened. A bright and cheery plod grinned at me as he unlocked the cage door and helped me out.

“Sorry bout the hard take down, but your boss told us to make it look, Very. Realistic.”

I nodded. “It was.” I could feel the bruises. As I stretched, I thought maybe one day I could return the compliment, and it would be an absolute pleasure. At least they took the handcuffs off once they had bundled me into the van out of sight.

He grinned at me and got back in and drove off leaving me standing there. Looking around I knew where I was. An old mansion in Surry that was now a very expensive private clinic MI6 used when it needed to put someone back together again after an operation gone wrong. It promised exclusivity, and above all, privacy and silence from its employees. I had been here before. A couple of years ago Russian gangsters on the French Riviera decide very kindly not to kill me, but send me home to give my bosses a Don’t mess with us message. I was here for almost five months, then spent six months in the office on light duties going crazy while mind and body healed. I very nearly jacked it all in then.

I wondered who the poor sod was I was coming to visit. I would know them, whoever they were. We were a small bunch of reprobates who wondered around the world doing Her Majesty’s dirty work. I guess we were the real life double ‘O’s of the Bond films. Only we were less champagne and caviar in fine restaurants and more like larger with scampi and chips in the local pub. Most of us were ex-SAS one way or another. Best not dwell on what had happened to the poor sod then. They had to have been on something really important to pull me out of the joint undercover operation with M.I.5. I was on.

“Hello, would you come with me please.”

You could have cut glass with her voice. Bet daddy was something in the foreign office.

I had not opened my mouth yet. She had been waiting for me in the entrance hall. This pretty young woman with perfect body and hair, presented a nicely shaped arse for me to follow and think about as she tap, tapped her way along on stupendous high heels, long legs and such a short dress to one of the consulting rooms. She knocked and entered, me following to find my boss Ms Casandra Belmont and presumably the Director of the place waiting with her. The boss lady does not deal with underlings.

“Arr, Max. Sorry you missed your breakfast. Have you eaten anything yet this morning?”

I gently shook my head, no. she smiled that smile of hers that meant I know something you don’t. Somehow I did not think she was about to offer me my missing nosh.

“Sit down Max.” she paused while I did. The Director just kept watching me. The boss looked across at him, he nodded, and she smiled and continued. “Max, we have been keeping tabs on one Herr Müller from Germany. He is based in France, but has a castle in Spain. In three months’ time he is holding a party there for the usual vapid beautiful people. Models, Footballers, Movie Stars and the alike. As well as throwing in a few easily impressed politicos from around Europe he wants to influence.”

She stops to stare at me.

“The thing is. We, along with our friends in America, and not to mention the French, the Germans, and most certainly the Spanish. Want to know just what is he up too, how is he making all the money we know he is spending. And, what the hell is he spending it on?”

She stops, sighing. “We know the money’s not from the Russians or the Chinese. We don’t think it’s the North Koreans. We did have someone on the inside for all the good it did us, but they got themselves killed before they could find anything out.”

She shook her head when she saw my face. “Oh, No. No. It was just extreme bad luck on our part. An accident. Some ninety year old fool who shouldn’t have been anywhere near the steering wheel of a car, was trying to get a music cassette out of the cassette player and didn’t see he was driving over a pedestrian crossing full of people at the time. He killed four people, our man included.”

My stomach rumbled. I still could not see how any of this affected me. You cannot just walk into undercover jobs like that. You can bet the man you’re after only employs people he has known for a long time and knows they can be trusted. You do not just pop up and say ‘Hi, I’m the replacement’. Well, not if you want to be still alive five minutes later, you don’t.

I realised the boss was still talking. My mind had wondered. I was hungry and thirsty. This room was hot.

“…we used the Ident Program to find someone, anyone, who would meet our requirements from first the UK, or America, and then from any of the other agencies we are good friends with to find someone who would fit in with the kind of models he prefers.” She grinned at me amused. “It was harder than we thought. There was one, but she was seven months pregnant. And then… it said the closest match after that in all of the agencies of all the girls we could do cosmetic surgery on to come up with the kind of girl he likes… was, you.”

“What! That’s stupid. I’m the wrong sex to start with.” I said. “Anyway I’m not gay,” I quickly added. Just in case she had some weird idea in that twisted warped little mind of hers. She smiled at that, “Nor is he.”

Thank God for that. That gets me off the hook. That’s what you get with modern technology. A stupidly wrong answer that the computer comes up with for what it thinks are all the right reasons.

“Ok. Good to know. So how on earth does it come up with me, then?”

“Remember Emma.”

I had to think for a moment. Then shock my head. “No way, boss.”

“We had to get that tall Russian girl out of Paris a couple of years ago, remember. You pulled that off dressing up as one of her girlfriends. Well, Emma is still on computer. And the computer said Emma was the girl he’d wet his pants to get in his bed.” She stopped and just smiled at me.

Shit. I was in trouble. She was really serious about this. “That was different.” I could hear the near panic in my voice.

“Look, we just went around some Paris department stores looking at dresses, till the watchers got enough bored with us and took their eye off the ball for a moment. And that gave us enough time to give them the slip long enough to sell them the dummy in the carpark to get away. That,” I pointed out, “wasn’t letting a man who wants to get into your panties, chat you up and take you into his inner sanctum to have his wicked way with you.”

She smiled at me. “Well. You’ll have three months to learn how to be an ex-model who thinks the world revolves around her pretty little arse. Oh, and you’ll need some corrective surgery, first, obviously. But Sir Jeromy here gave me the nod you were suitable when you came in. He tells me it is all quite reversible.”

Really, I thought. There was not a chance in hell of me signing up for this one. We are allowed to refuse a job with no come back if we want too. It was in the contract given the stuff we get asked to do, given the associate risk half the time of not getting back home and the getting seriously dead factor of our work. Soon as I was out of here I was heading for the pub in the village and a strong drink. Several I think, along with an order of scampi and chips before I made my way home, I was starving.

She smiled again. If she thought she was going to persuade me to agree to this one, she was mad if she thought that.

“You look like you could do with a drink.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Here let me.” She got up and went and poured a glass of orange from a jug on a tray near the window, dropping some ice cubes in. Out of habit I watched her doing it. I was going to say I was thinking more along the lines of an enormous gin and tonic, but kept my mouth shut. After all she was my boss and you can only push things so far. Instead I took the drink. Thanked her and took a long draft to quench my thirst in this hot room.

Big mistake! BIG big mistake. The glass slipped from my hand. I just about heard Sir Jeromy say “Damn, we’ll have to get the carpet cleaned now.”

‘Sod You,’ I though as I crumpled to the floor and passed out...

To be continued…