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The Candidate

By Senor Wenceslaus

As I walked through the plaza I counted at least three coeds behaving unusually—one was clucking like a chicken, and two had their clothes undone so that they could better examine their own underwear.

I think I heard a girl’s voice growling and barking like a dog, but I didn’t look around the plaza for her. I was dressed to blend with the business crowd and was certain that no one was looking for me, but I always feel better going into a mission if there is a good diversion. Of course, if I had the ability to create such a display then using it like this would be wasteful. That being said, having the distraction provided by someone else was comforting and quite convenient.

I entered the building and walked past the shops, past the elevators, past the restrooms to the stairs that led to the office area. As I opened the door to the stairway I quickly scanned the interior court.

Two men in casual business attire were quietly watching the coeds’ display through the window, but no one was acting strangely. I stepped through the door and pulled it closed. Then I gingerly made my way around the pretty Asian girl who was masturbating through her disheveled office clothes on the stairs so as not to disturb her in case she became violent. Looks like intel found a candidate after all. That’s a break for us—our target is running hot and wild.

I stepped into the building’s management offices. The woman at the desk to my left was leaning back in her chair with her blouse wide open. Her skirt was pulled up to her hips. Her knees were at shoulder level and spread wide so that her feet could rest on the furniture at either side of her chair. She seemed to be reading something intently but was staring at nothing at all. My arrival did not disturb her.

Further into the office a woman in a short skirt with her panties pushed down from her bottom was frantically looking for something. The manila folder on her desk was clearly tagged “Pratt & Associates.”

“Where is that Pratt file?” she muttered over and over, as she repeatedly bent at her waist to search her desk and its environs.

As I walked into the interior offices I heard a repeated and frantic grunting and tapping, and the low volume of a television newscast. I looked in the office where the noises were coming from, and saw a young man in need of a haircut wearing more-casual-than-business casual attire behind the desk. His uncombed head was bopping to no rhythm, or to a combination of rhythms, and he was beating the desktop at random-seeming intervals with the eraser-end of a pencil and with his open hand—while also making air-guitar noises. I pulled the office door closed and considered calling for backup. Either our candidate had learned to set his mind on veg-o-matic, which was very bad, or this was our candidate, and he had burned himself out in the childlike first rush of his psychic awakening—which, given our mature rogue’s schedule and proclivities, might have been much worse.

As I pondered my options, I noticed something that the financial newscaster on the television did not—I noticed that she was taking her clothes off in front of an international audience. As I noticed this, I also heard my slovenly candidate’s rhythms settle into less-frantic paces. I sat on the office’s leather couch to wait for him to join the waking world. I could only hope that he was a better option than the rogue.

After a short time, my candidate let a grunt wind down rather than finish it, flipped his pencil across the office and reached blindly behind him for a box of tissue that he seemed to know was there. He blew his nose, wiped his mouth, blinked lazily, and then seemed to notice me for the first time. “Hello,” he said, as though he wasn’t sure if he was being caught doing something that he shouldn’t have. He tossed the tissue at a wastebasket without aiming and missed completely. The tissue bounced to a near-stop on the office’s area rug and then uncannily ricocheted into the basket. He was looking at me the whole time as though he didn’t care where the tissue went. In fact, I’m not sure if he knew that he had blown his nose.

I uncrossed my legs and stood for a moment, then turned away from the candidate and lifted my skirt over my waist. I was wearing a black silk thong and a black garter with tan stockings. My skirt was black, and my top was a tailored eggshell linen—one of my favorites. I was also wearing opaque sunglasses, to prevent eye contact with any candidate, but that was pure speculation and superstition. Still, I wanted to show all the initiative that I could, since by selecting and meeting a candidate like this I was putting my very mind at risk. I bent over to lean on the back of the couch and addressed my tousle-headed young man.

* * * *

“I’m a government representative,” she said. “Your activities have come to our attention for obvious reasons—they present both a threat and an opportunity. Ordinarily, we would want to meet with you in a less-rushed manner, but a terrorist outfit has recently joined forces with or been subverted by a rogue telepath. This outfit must be neutralized immediately. Of course, an established telepath has little need of money, but we typically offer a steady legitimate paycheck with benefits, as well as therapies and training of a sort that are both particularly useful to someone with your abilities and unavailable anywhere else in the world. This is our standard offer, but you should also know that the rogue is planning to strike in this city, perhaps as soon as today—so we offer you the chance to save your life and the lives of millions of innocent civilians.”

I considered her statements as I considered her nearly-naked ass—which was very attractive. She shifted her weight on her high heels, which tilted her hips more to the left. She was a real beauty, and she knew it. Every time I see how aware beautiful women are of exactly how beautiful they are, I am surprised. Again. And then I feel stupid. Again.

So, she knows that she is beautiful. She also believes that everything she has said is true. More careful scanning shows that she does not know how she knows this—she just knows it. She knows that she is wearing a black silk thong, but she does not know what other panties are in her underwear drawer, nor does she know the address of her apartment—her mind is a hollow shell which only contains the information required to meet a potential agent. I wonder if her original personality can be activated for her hours away from work—or if it was eliminated. I don’t dare check—within her shell personality might be a suicidal killer who comes out like a sharp-toothed jack-in-the-box when the shell is cracked. Hmmm…why would I know that?

All right—to the business at hand. Gently…I only want to manipulate the shell personality, not threaten or break it…The tendrils of my mind reach out to stroke her bottom, which is also to say that they stroke the part of herself that is aware of her bottom, in time with my voice—so that when she hears my voice, she thinks of her bottom being cupped and held while on display. She is not aware of thinking this, but part of her mind, a large part, is thinking of her ass when she hears me speak. She is thinking of her nearly-naked ass on display, which it is, but she thinks that she is only thinking of it.

“Your rogue’s first move was to announce his intentions through the media. I blocked that, with some effort, but he will move again and shortly.” I considered her ass while I spoke, and knew that she was also considering her ass. The roundness of it. The voluptuousness. The exposure to room-temperature air. With my every word, her bottom quivered, as though my voice was playing her thong like a one-stringed harp.

“She…” she gasped, and waited for the word to sink in. Of course I knew that the rogue was female, but I acted surprised. “She is downtown, and east of the river. That’s all we know.”

“All that they know” was probably not true, but this was all that my contact knew. I got up to leave the office. “Get undressed and pretend to be a secretary. Blend” As I distracted her with the shame of this, I extracted everything of myself that I could from her, so that I would leave no trail for her masters.

* * * *

I passed a few college girls exposing themselves and making animal noises in the plaza. Some office workers had settled to watch the show while they had lunch. The girls had been there for some time, it seemed—but no one bothered to summon the police or security to send them on their way. This would make for a workable diversion, I guess—but it was interesting that I didn’t remember the girls doing this when I entered the building. Come to think of it, I don’t remember how I got into the office…or what I keep in my underwear drawer…or the address of my apartment…

Although it seems obvious that I am being used as a tool to take out another telepath, I know that it feels right to do so, that I should do so, and quickly.

I made my way through the lunchtime crowd and almost paused as I spotted a pretty girl bent over as though she was looking for something. “Where…” she said, stretching her microfiber minidress as she bent near the curb.

As I approached, she suddenly stood and pulled the top of her dress apart, exposing her bare breasts. “There they are!” she yelled, as she wobbled on her high heels. I only briefly broke my stride as I walked past her.

If that was meant to be an attack, it was clumsy and strange--but without trying to look, I found that behind her soft and pleasant face was a keen hunter in the shallows of her mind—hungry and feral.

This close to my target I could tell which office to go to and its quickest route. I left the elevator and entered the offices of a small law firm.

The receptionist was almost sitting on her desk—she was in a white blouse and a short, red plaid skirt and was leaning back with her legs up and her panties around her ankles. Her garters and the tops of her stockings were in plain view. She gave the impression of being balanced precariously, when all she had to do was put her feet down—and maybe pull up her lace panties.

“I’m going to kill you…kill you…as soon as you get close enough…no one knows it, I’ve got a secret…kill you…” I could hardly repress the thoughts and images of the selfless techniques that she had in mind as she would rush me, from a place beyond pain or fear, giving her all to get at my jugular…She looked surprised still, with her large fair bottom half-exposed as she rocked, helpless, confused, humiliated…”…kill you…” I gave her a wide berth as I went to the inner offices. I was finally able to tune her out as I left her behind.

I came to my target’s office. She looked up from the work on her desk, for all the world like an ordinary office worker—if you couldn’t see the waves of power throbbing from her head. I began my lame patter, not knowing when to expect the ambush, or from what quarter. “Hello, I believe we have an appointment…”

She shrugged off her jacket as she considered her answer.

“Yes, the Pratt file...” she said.

She stood and unbuttoned her blouse as she walked to the filing cabinet. She opened the top drawer and then closed it immediately. She walked to her desk and sat on it. She smiled conspiratorially as she leaned back a bit so that she could cross her stockinged legs. “Say,” she said, as she pulled her blouse wide—showing her substantial bosom held snug by a pretty underwire bra—ivory, to match her blouse. “Why don’t we skip this Pratt business and just take a late lunch—take the rest of the day. I know a great restaurant nearby—it’s in a hotel…”

From the fringes of my perceptions I could see that, powerful as she was, her mind was divided and fighting itself. An army of beautiful assassins warred in her mind, women that she feared were more beautiful than she. Women that she was threatened by, women that she hated, women that she wanted to use to hurt me with. Women whose aggressions I had fought all morning to turn upside down, while simultaneously fighting her…and myself..In such a fight, if your lover and opponent know you too well, you have to change yourself or they will hit you where you live…

She slid off the desk and dropped to her knees. She undid her skirt and let her silk blouse flow from her shoulders, down her arms, past her hips…Pop went her bra…she knows that I love the moment when her bra frees its grip…

“Please…just give me the day…” I knew that I was going to regret this…but after all, I am a new man…and today’s a new day…

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