The Whale

      No Comments on The Whale


Rating: R (language, sexual situations)
Summary: CSM travels to Sin City to work off some steam.

Category: Vignette, CSM POV
Spoilers: Do we still have to do this? No particular ep.
Feedback: Hell yeah.

Disclaimer: All characters from TXF belong to 1013/Fox. But the story is mine. :smack: Don’t touch that.
Distribution: Go ahead. Drop me a note and don’t change the headers.
Note: Originally started as an elements challenge at Haven. Could never get a grip on it but loved the idea. Much thanks to Mish for helping me bring it together with a truly kick ass idea.
Elements: A whale, torture, hubris, heart, a muse, organizing something, telling a story or fable. By the way, a Vegas Whale is a high stakes gambler.

Originally posted: July 2003


The Whale

The Whale moved unobtrusively through the casino lobby, ignored by the clusters of tourists gawking at the bright lights. Never ignored by casino personnel, of course, who knew where he was at every moment. This particular Whale had a penchant for privacy and tipped handsomely for the illusion of anonymity.

Lighting an ever present cigarette he made his way slowly to his game of choice, Blackjack. It was his considered opinion that a true gambler played 21; the only game on the floor not rigged to steal your money too quickly. Only ignorant fools played Roulette and slots. Craps were for those who liked to draw attention to themselves, something he was not fond of. Not that he wasn’t there to lose money – he was. That was part of the attraction for him. He experienced few moments in life where he was unsure of the outcome of any hand he held. He’d found he missed it. That’s when his secret journeys to Sin City began.

Sitting down to his usual table, he was not surprised to see his favorite dealer. This casino was very good at making sure Whales were kept happy. Some gamblers like a cheering crowd, slaps on the back, a hubbub of hubris announcing their importance to the drunken masses. Not him, his was the simplest of requests. No one sits at the table with him. No one bothers him with inane chit chat about jobs and families. All he asked for was the chance to risk his considerable bankroll in peace, and the undivided attention of his dealer of choice.

“Hello, sir. How nice to see you again.”

“Hello, Sarah. It’s nice to see you as well. How have you been?”

“I’ve been just fine. Thank you. You haven’t visited us in quite sometime. I hope you haven’t been too terribly busy.”

“Well, you know how it goes, Sarah. I always say I’ll slow down, but somehow it doesn’t ever happen.”

“Ah, believe me, I understand.”

She quickly dealt his cards and motioned for a cocktail waitress to bring him his drink. A nine of hearts and a ten of clubs. A slight raise of his hand on the playing surface indicated his wish to stay.

“You look exceptionally beautiful tonight, Sarah.”

“Thank you sir. You’re too kind” She had fourteen total; taking another card, she dealt herself a nine of diamonds. “Dealer loses.”

“Well, it’s always true.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, sir.”

“Please, Sarah, call me Charles.”

“That’s very thoughtful of you, Charles.”


Three hours later the man left his usual generous tip and bid his dealer good night. After several hours at the table with her, he was compelled to find more intimate company. He never asked her to
accompany him, and she never offered to go. He had been tempted occasionally over the years, but had resisted. Chivalry? Not hardly. Even a man used to existing outside the rules knows you don’t fuck a great dealer. There are some things in life you just doesn’t do.

His real life was a forced torture of watching the woman he loved openly despise and insult him at every opportunity. As if that weren’t enough, her obvious devotion to his sworn enemy made his obsession with her ridiculous and insulting. His pathetic preoccupation with her kept him suspended between bone grinding rage and emasculating tenderness. When he could no longer take his own weakness in the face of her unyielding contempt, he came here. He came here to be treated like royalty, and to expel his emotional impotence on a handsomely paid whore.

Ironically, the dalliance with prostitutes had begun innocently enough. Several years prior, during an especially difficult time, he had fled to this oasis in the desert in an attempt to elude his rage. After the usual ‘fuck you’ to Lady Luck failed to provide any relief, he’d impulsively turned to a more potent diversion. Apparently, requesting a diminutive redhead in an expensive business suit was not a difficult request for Vegas. The experience left him a changed man – briefly. It never lasted, his cheap substitute of a bitter muse. And despite his best intentions, he always returned for more.

Then something truly bizarre happened.

He met Anne. Anne, an exorbitantly expensive Vegas prostitute with a penchant for pulp crime novels and an uncanny ability to spin the most amazing adventures out of thin air. The fact that she gave a blow job bordering on a religious experience helped, but it was her storytelling skills that kept him returning again and again. He fancied himself a cosmic Mickey Spillane, but the pile of rejection letters he masochistically saved told him the truth. He may control the fate of all mankind, but his characters “lacked emotional depth” and his dialogue was “stiff and without resonance.”

His colleagues would be alarmed to know how many occupational related dilemmas his counterfeit fantasy had solved while clad only in thigh highs and chunky black heels.

Ensconced in his elegant, complimentary suite, he waited impatiently for his evenings entertainment. It had been some time since his last visit and he was feeling impatient. The subtle chime of his suite’s doorbell signaled an end to his waiting.

The open door revealed a petite red head with a sleek haircut, creamy white skin and eyes as clear blue as a Montana sky. A small gold crucifix winked at him from the folds of her blouse. He felt the familiar ache in his chest as he let his eyes take her in. She lacked the regal bearing of the original but her level gaze took his breathe away.

“Good evening, Anne.”

“Good evening, Charles.”

Anne stepped forward, looking up into his eyes as she fingered his tie. Leaning down he attempted to brush his lips against hers, but she discreetly pulled away and stepped around him into the dimly lit suite.

“It’s been awhile, Charles. I was starting to think you’d forgotten about me.”

He let the remark float in the air unanswered. She already knew the truth and he was unwilling to demean himself further.

Anne glanced around the suite, keeping her face as neutral as possible. It had been a few years since she began seeing this trick and she’d learned some things. For instance, she knew she represented someone. Someone he couldn’t have. Over time his small gifts revealed clues to this mystery woman: a small gold crucifix, expensive black heals that reminded her of old Hollywood movies, elegant perfume. He brought her wicked lingerie that she suspected was more his own imagination, than the mystery woman’s taste. She doubted he’d ever gotten into the woman’s pants in the first place.

She had more insight into the trick himself, than she did on the fantasy she represented. He was obviously quite powerful, as he didn’t feel the need to discuss it. Dates who remind you of their importance, rarely are. He smoked incessantly, which she hated. She always had to wash her hair and clothes several times to rid herself of the odor. But he paid well, so she couldn’t complain. He was a strange mix of controlling and child like; he hated to be contradicted but loved to be bossed around. Perhaps, just bossed around by her. She suspected she was one of the few people who told him what to do. Experience had taught her that powerful men often made strange tricks. Use to being in control of everything and everyone, they often got off on being dominated and intimidated. Whatever. As long as they paid her and didn’t hurt her, she was more than willing to remind them of what worthless pieces of crap they were.

She wouldn’t have given *Charles* a second thought if it hadn’t been for one strange aspect of their relationship. The storytelling. Their first date had ended with the impromptu discovery that both liked pulp crime novels. Thrillers with old fashioned, misunderstood heroes, who smoked too much and loved too little. They had laid in bed for a long time talking about favorite authors and beloved books. He’d confessed a secret wish to be an author and she’d confessed a talent for storytelling. They made another date for the following night, and he instructed her to show up prepared to spin a tale. She did, and so began their peculiar sort of intimacy.

Organizing her thoughts she returned her attentions to her host. She waited for the man to make the first move. He liked it when she played hard to get.

“Would you like your usual?” He poured amber liquid into a cut crystal tumbler for himself.


Bringing her a glass of white wine, he reached out tentatively to brush a strand of hair from her face. “I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?”

“Of course.” He closed the gap between them further. “I have an interesting problem for you this time, but I’m not sure I’ll have my usual patience.”

“Good things come to those who wait, Charles.”

“I’ve never been very good at waiting.” With one hand he brushed his finger tips along her jaw and down the column of her neck. Gently he fingered the small cross nestled between her collar bones. She noticed the slight tremble in his other hand as he brought the tumbler to his mouth and drank the liquid in one swallow.

Reaching her arm out Anne placed the wine glass on a small table next to the couch. Leisurely, she began unbuttoning her form fitting black suit jacket. “Tell me your problems, Charles. Tell me what you want.”

The man held his breath as he watched Anne slowly remove her jacket, revealing a tight short sleeved white silk blouse underneath.

“Go sit in your chair, Charles. How do you expect me to get any work done with you fawning all over me like this?”

Reaching out, he cupped his hand around one of her breasts. The black lace of her bra created an outline in the silk.

“I said sit down, Charles.”

Making his way to an overstuffed velvet chair, he lowered his body onto the cushion. Loosening his tie, he took an audibly shaky breath.

Anne began to walk idly back and forth before him. Her strides slow and graceful, her hands moving languidly over her backside and finally resting on her hips, clad in a tight fitting calf length, black skirt.

“Where shall I begin, Charles? What life or death situation has Jack Colquitt found himself in this visit?”

Removing his tie he dropped it on the floor next to his chair. “He’s been secretly contacted by a terrorist group who want him to join them in trying to overthrow the Federal Government.”

“My goodness. That is exciting. What else?”

“He can’t tell his partner that he’s undercover.”

“What do the terrorists want?”

“I want them to use some sort of biological weapon. That’s all the rage these days. But I can’t figure out why they would do it or what the method of delivery should be.”

Despite herself Anne felt her own interest pique at the puzzle he presented. Reminding herself to keep her movements restrained she turned away, presenting him with a pleasant view of her ass. Slowly she reached behind her and began to unbutton her skirt. “Shall we hurt Jack or his partner?”

“Jack hasn’t been in danger in awhile. I think we should hurt him, but not his partner.”

“Hurt him bad?” She slowly unzipped the skirt.

His eyes were glued to the zipper as it lowered, “No, not bad.” His voice was almost a whisper.

“Do the terrorists’ have allies within the government?” She let her skirt drop to the floor revealing elegantly shaped legs in thigh high black silk stockings and black lace panties. This was always a touchy part of the scenario and she sensed his hesitation at her line of questioning. Lifting one leg out of her skirt she sat her foot down on the other side of the heap of clothing. With her legs were spread provocatively, she deliberately leaned down to the floor and picked up her skirt.

He moaned audibly at the sight and replied in a choked voice. “Yes. Yes, he’s being manipulated by someone in the government.”

“Poor Jack,” she whispered as she picked up the garment and slowly stood upright. Turning slightly she looked back at him and tossed the skirt in his direction. Pivoting back to face him, she kept her legs slightly spread and began unbuttoning her blouse. Once her shirt was removed, she tossed it on his lap with her skirt. He brought it to his face and inhaled deeply. She noticed his pants were already unzipped.

“What an interesting puzzle you’ve brought me, Charles.”

The End