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Emm & Pixie are ... the Women from Auntie

Becoming the women from Auntie: a prelude to the next Emm & Pixie saga, cumming soon

What had I done? That was the natural tenor of my thoughts on receiving the letter. After our adventures in the Crimea and Rumania, Sarah and I had come back to England, refreshed and invigorated. It had been hard saying goodbye to the gorgeous Emm, but as she seemed ecstatic to be remaining with the Russian Oligarch, Ekaterina, and as we would be seeing her at Christmas, the causes for sadness were few.

A few days after my return I had had a phone call from an unlisted number, which was, in itself interesting, as my phone was set to block such things. The voice had told me to be at an address in Kew on Friday afternoon at five o’clock. As I could make that, I said yes.

I talked with my wife, Sarah about it, and she said I'd make an ideal 'Agent 006.5,' though it was a shame Emm was not joining me, as she could be given a 'licence to fuck.' My comment, as I lay in her arms after making love, was that in Emm, James Bond would have met his match. She, I added, would have a 'licence to thrill.'

'Yes, well, my little sex-pot, as long as you don't think you have a licence to fuck. I'll spank your pretty little arse if you decide to go for pussy galore!'

'No, Miss, or do I mean yes Miss?' I giggled.

At that, she turned me over and had her wicked way with me.

So it was that, on Monday, wearing my best little black dress, with low heels, and some tactically applied make-up, I presented myself at the address. There, for the next two hours, I was grilled lightly over a medium flame – or at least that was what it felt like.

I was asked about my background, about what had happened in the Crimea and Rumania, and about my sexuality. They seemed to know more about sexual history than I remembered, and they also asked me about Emm and Ekaterina.

On Monday morning I received a call telling me to present myself for an interview at an address near Whitehall. Cancelling an appointment with my line-manager on the plea of illness, I presented myself once more.

My panel consisted of three women. The Chair, a blonde in her late thirties wearing a rather chic Versace business suit, asked whether I had heard of the Agency of the United Nations Trafficking Intervention Extralegal, and I had to admit I had not. This seemed to cause general satisfaction. I was, I was told, being offered a post with it. As they would like my training to begin within the week, they had taken the liberty of telling my boss that I was being seconded to a Government project, and they had provided him with a suitable replacement.

‘And what if I say no?’ I asked, quizzically.

‘Then you’d be unemployed, which, given what you received for your work from the Russian Oligarch, would cause you no problems for at least a couple of years. Moreover, not to put too fine a point on it, your wife is not exactly a pauper, even on BBC Radio 3 rates.’

‘But,’ I protested, ‘I haven’t even seen a job description, let alone the salary.’

‘The latter you will find satisfactory, the former you will be making up as you go along. No doubt Human Resources can be fobbed off with some bureaucracy-speak. Oh, and by the way, you ought to meet your fellow agent.’

She pressed a buzzer.

The door opened, and in walked the last person in the world I had expected to see – Emm!

‘Hi, Pix! Darling! SO yummy to see you. You look quite pretty in that, shame about the tits!’

That was my Emm. But what the fuck! I could not quite compute all of this. Emm, an agent? Emm here? Emm, a spy?

‘Hehe,’ Emm giggled. For once, Pix, it is you who looks confused. I’m here on a shopping trip with Ivana, as far as Ekaterina is concerned, and when she sees the lingerie, well, my darling!

‘Okay, I see,’ said I, feeling far from okay or clear.

‘Miss Lee will be working undercover with you, Agent Pixie.’

‘Ha!’ I laughed, ‘if you only knew what Emm can do under covers!’

‘Darling Pix, that’s just why they have me on the books. Can you think of anyone better able to penetrate the high-level sex trade?’

Put like that, the answer was no.

I gave darling Emm the biggest hug, getting lost, as ever, in that capacious cleavage – which was only one of my reasons for doing it, of course.

So that sealed it. I accepted.

‘So, Emm, looking also at the Chair of the panel, ‘you do realise what that makes us?’

‘Well, erm, agents?’ Emm looked puzzled.

‘It makes us, darling, Emm, and Pix – the women from AUNTIE!’

So it did.

What had I done?

That, as it transpired, was a question with quite an answer. But that, dear reader, is for another time and place.





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