Office porn Queen

CHAPTER EIGHT

In Europe, secret agents, male and female, prowl the back alleys of sleeping cities and the marble corridors of power.

And also in the United States, secret agents make rendezvous in boudoirs and beds, or on park benches within sight of the White House, and secrets flow from pocket to pocket. In the USA, a heavy-lidded gal in a slinky black dress may be nobody at all, or she may carry in her cunt the plans for a secret satellite.

This goes on in Europe too, only more so. The cities are older. The national boundaries crowd closer. People have had extra centuries in which to learn the arts of espionage, with which the arts of sexual temptation have always been closely connected.

Now and then, pilots who fly the Atlantic find themselves doing favors for heavy-lidded gals in slinky black dresses. In 1982 a pilot suffered serious frustration when one of those heavy lidded gals forgot to remove the usual secret plans she was carrying in the usual place.

This had not happened to Hank Hastings yet. Also he was involved merely in doing favors for the State Department.

Thus he found himself showing his credentials to the guard at the door of the United States Embassy in London.

Once inside, and waiting in an anteroom, he further identified himself by taking out a cigar, smoking half of it – right down to a nearly invisible mark – and then extinguishing it by rubbing the fiery end into a marble ashtray.

The ashes would be collected later and would by chemical analysis reveal a great deal.

Hank then looked casually out through a window. He kept his eye on a man in a black raincoat who was feeding pigeons. A very careless secret agent. Everybody knows that secret agents feed pigeons to make them look innocent while they wait and watch.

Hank's mind filled with thoughts of Helen Troy. Yes, he thought, the day I get back to Chicago, that sweet kid Helen and I are going to snuggle down and catch up on our fucking.

What a sweet kid she is. Always has been.

And such a good airline hostess.

Those stupid bastards at HQ. Just because some executive's smart nephew took a course in the psychology of sex, they think they know all there is to know about the adroit commercial handling of the sexual undercurrents.

No lesbians. Mad!

That poor kid. All mixed up. Likes men. Likes women. Fucks men a little. Fucks women a lot. It would be all right if she were a straight-out bisexual. Her trouble is, she can't make herself at ease.

Well, wait till I get back to Chicago. I am going to ram it into her so hard and so often that I think she'll decided it's a man she wants, after all.

Someone entered the room, behind him.

Hank made no sudden motion. He didn't want a knife in the back. But the tiny mirror he wore on his signet ring showed him only the figure of a slight red-headed girl with small but well perched tits beneath a casual morning outfit that surely had been born in the shop of a famous couturier in Paris.

The Ambassador's daughter.

Hank still did not turn. The rampant erection that had taken charge of him, the moment he had thought of lying naked in bed with naked Helen Troy, nuzzling her breasts and losing his pecker in the depths of her cunt, well, he wanted that hard-on to die down.

He recalled a lecture on good manners he had had, when a youth, from his ne'er-do-well cousin, a notorious fucker-around-town.

"A gentleman," his cousin had told him, may be cunt-hunting around with Woman A, Woman B, Woman C, Woman D, and so forth. But he must never forget the courtesy due his women, no matter how many. Should a gentleman find himself with an erection caused by the remembrance of ecstasy he has shared with Woman A, for example, he must never let Woman B see the bump that hard-on makes in his trousers. Any woman whom a man respects as good company and a good lay is entitled to see a bump in his trousers that she herself has caused. Let her know only of the hard-on that is dedicated to her alone.

"Remember that, young man," the ne'er-do-well cousin had said. Sometimes the rule could not be followed. This time, Hank tried his best to fight his hard-on down. He even had to whisper to himself, "Helen, let go of my prick!" before his prick calmed itself.

He turned, then, and posed in smiling attention in his natty uniform. Like a naval officer, he carried his gold-encrusted cap under his arm. He now had four-and-a-half gold stripes on each sleeve and a touch of gray at either temple. All this added to his mature handsomeness, as he well knew.

"Ah, Miss Leona! Good morning."

"Good morning, Captain Hastings. Father asked me to remind you that he'd like to see you again on your next London trip."

"By all means."

"You have finished your cigar?"

"Quite, thank you."

Smiling, the sub-twenty girl slipped past him with a delightful motion of slim hips. She had a plastic bag into which she dropped the marble ashtray, thus making sure she did not lose any of the precious cigar ash.

"Off to the Code Room," she said with a pretty smile.

"Ah. And then?" She might or might not have noticed the bump he was raising for her alone. At any rate, she touched her hair with a bit of unease and murmured, "Why, off to my ballet class near Grosvenor House."

"Why, that's quite close to the Wanderlust London office."

"Oh, is it really?"

But she was too young to carry it off, quite. She had known. Oh, she had known!

"Yes indeed. And I must report there in half an hour."

The ashtray in its strong plastic bag, now tightly sealed, made a telltale tremor where it hung from her hand at her side. Her dainty young lips had parted slightly.

Hank Hastings murmured, "I was about to take a cab. May I give you a lift, as we say in Chicago?"

She laughed. "Oh, we speak pure USA around here! Why, yes, thank you, Captain Hastings. Just let me pop back to the Code Room. Ad a mo!"

They laughed together. She's mine, Hank Hastings told himself. But, be careful. Trouble can come with trickery in high places.

Once upon a time, another American flyer had fallen in love with an Ambassador's daughter.

But Lindbergh had married the girl.

Marriage was the last thing that Hank Hastings wanted.

Playing with one hot twat after another was so much more fun.

On closer inspection, as she rode with him in one of those high ceiling London cabs, the Ambassador's daughter seemed about seventeen.

She seemed about the age of a USA high-school junior.

It occurred to Hank Hastings, with an odd pang, that Helen Troy had been a high-school junior when they had first met.

And then… ice cream sodas with a crowd of other kids looking on! And then, suddenly, the dark cloud of her story. The chill of the thing. Raped by an uncle. But at least it had happened in today's world, not yesterday's. Women didn't get "ruined" by premarital sex these days, any more than men did.

They could, however, get turned off men and turned onto women.

It hadn't felt that way when he had laid, waylaid and relaid delightful young Helen Troy in that hotel bed in Milwaukee.

But there he went, his mind on Helen again, and his prick rising as though hunting for Helen's cunt and not the young cunt of the girl who ended in a bed in a London hotel, beside him.

It had happened so quickly.

He supposed he had come into Leona's life at precisely the right time. Just when all the good manners and well-guarded entertainments that come the way of an Ambassador's daughter had acted up, in her teenage mind, to nothing much.

He supposed that there comes a time in every girl's life when she wants to be had. Lucky the man who happens to be in her company right then.

They had found a mildly decayed old hotel near St James Park. Through a corner of the window they read the time on Big Ben, down toward the river.

They had doubtful plumbing but a delightful big comfortable bed. Hank had hardly had time in which to change out of his uniform into a suit of London cut, and to remember to carry a tightly rolled umbrella. Leona had popped into Harrod's for a dress so dowdy, it gave her the giggles.

"I told them I wanted something that would please my Edwardian grandmother," she chuckled.

Good. The US Ambassador's daughter was known as one of the most modishly dressed girls in town.

When they had closed the door of their room, alone at last, ready to carry a two-hour courtship to its sexual conclusion, she had looked candidly up into Hank's eyes and had said, "Better tell you. I'm a virgin."

Startled, he at last replied, "Well, good."

"I mean a virgin-virgin, cherry and all. Some girls think that if one of our London lesbys deflowers her with a tonguing, or more likely a fingering, she is technically still a virgin. But with me, cherry is cherry."

"I couldn't agree more. But, uh, do you have many lesbians in London?"

"Enough."

"But apparently you never made it with any of them."

"I didn't say that." Such a direct little creature! And as she spoke, she undressed.

"Then you did?"

"I told her she could lick me but she mustn't put her tongue way down in."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I had a virgin come. How about that?"

"Not many girls can say it."

"But then, later, it seemed so silly." Now she was undressing him. "This makes more sense." She laughed, looked up at him with a flushed face, for a moment lost her poise and admitted, "Look, I've imagined this so many times and I've had so many hot dreams about it that I know it's what I want."

"We make our lives by our points of view."

"I also, while keeping myself virgin despite a lot of pawing, found out the invariable male point of view." She had his pants down and she had her hand into the front of his underpants. She released the rod that she had no trouble in finding. It sprang out, lance-like, pointing at her navel. "There's the male point of view," Leona said.

"You are so right! But you don't seem startled at the nearness of a naked prick."

"Oh no. I've tickled them. Pulled and pulled on them and watched the stuff squirt. Licked them. Sucked the jisum out. But I've never had one inside me, uh-uh."

He had her typed, now. A teaser. So far and no farther. But the teasers who gave a man relief could make interesting company.

What's more, he didn't feel as though he was in charge of her. She seemed more in charge of him. This at seventeen! She was going to be Madam Ambassador one day. And in politics. Madam Secretary would be a good bet too.

"Leona, what will you do about lesbians when you are Secretary of Human Resources?"

"Tell them to be careful about catching diseases of the tongue and tell them to try out the male point of view, because they ought to know what they are missing."

Hank laughed, slapped her rosy rump. "Into bed with you."

When push came to shove, the child began their sex play in a scared condition. Not much, but he felt it in her tenseness. Yet such was her healthiness that the cunt he fingered grew warmer and warmer. And more and more open. Often the twat lips are called the flowers of a woman. He could see then soften, actually open, the flowers of desire.

Gradually his stroking relaxed her. At the same time it raised her tiny nipples, that with real sex in her life would soon develop into a woman's gorgeous buds.

He found her extra-sensitive in the creases where the tops of the legs meet the belly, in the groin, where those creases point from each side toward the secret recesses of the inmost crotch.

He trailed his lips along those creases. While he did this, the girl touched his hair and the back of his neck and let her own finger follow his tongue along the love-path.

She quivered with the firm body of youth. He thought: You can almost tell a woman's age by the way sex play makes her quiver.

He wasn't very steady himself, just then, with his prick straining outward, bar-stiff with longing. And now she took it into her hand. She had tiny hands. Very delicate. Their touch brought a gasp from him. He saw her smile at that.

But mostly she lay with her head back as though lost in some world of her own while he tongued the bottom of her belly and made little taps upon the clitoris, which swelled and throbbed with a promise of deep sexual longings.

She lay with her head back, her taut little breasts rising and falling quickly, and she let him serve her with man-caresses. That was it. She let him serve her. Well that was the way it was.

Not a bad way at all. As long as she kept hold of his prick. Which she did, holding it to assure herself that her time had come, that at last she was going to have a prick thrust down into her cunt, to drive her into ecstasies she had so far only imagined.

He got a hand beneath her and played with her buttocks. She tensed and released them, tensed and released. Good instincts. Tension and release in itself stimulates the nerves, and as the man's hand caresses, one stimulation meets the other and as Hank had heard from other women the sensation is not merely doubled, but quadrupled, and it all gets together and runs through the tissues into the cunt.

He turned her over and kissed her ass cheeks and heard her sigh and murmur something to herself. Had she said, "Ah, I picked the right man to pop my cherry."? He was pretty sure she had said that.

Well, in modern times, kids married kids. Okay, but perhaps the old-timers had been right. In the old days, a man didn't marry till he was thirty-five or so. (What he did meanwhile was called sewing his wild oats.) But the virgin bride got a man of experience. He knew how to break a girl in and he knew how to keep her going on a torrid level of hotness. Good for both.

A gentleman of those days, like back when Big Ben was set up like a very large prick with a wristwatch, or prickwatch, a gentleman drank himself to death by the time he was getting gray. Then, when his still-juicy widow had his money, she had no trouble in finding another husband.

Maybe this unusual little girl's instincts were right. She had grown bored with her virginity, but the man she had chosen to cop her cherry was old enough to be her father. Yes, Hank had never had any trouble finding young girls to get on top of. Okay with him.

As he had with Helen Troy when she had been seventeen, he lost himself in Leona's fragrant, firm youthfulness.

Going suddenly at her breasts, he startled her into a cry of surprise and pleasure.

Why, he almost could get a breast into his mouth! There was only a circle of delightful breast tissue left over at the bottom, and while he tongued the nipple he played with the exposed part of the breast, circling it with his finger, poking it gently, smoothing it, moving his head up and down so that that titty-base was slightly compressed, then released, then compressed again.

And if Leona had thought she'd be able to keep her cool while he got his yearnings past the point of no return, and got her simultaneously ready to be penetrated, well, she could forget it. The youngster who had been so much in charge was in charge no longer. He had titillated and cunny funnied and kissed her and nipped her into a state of abandon that had her gasping for breath and throwing herself around in wild sexual writhings.

When he abruptly presented his prick to her mouth, she had it in and down her throat almost before he knew what was happening. With this time-honored act of the female's surrender to a special male need, she put the control of the fuck back into his hands.

The trick now was not to fill her mouth with come when he so badly wanted to. No, he wanted to slide a fresh and fully energized prick into the cunt where the cherry waited. He hadn't had a cherry for a long time. And where is the man who does not want to perform a deflowering!

She wasn't biting him, but she was holding him with her teeth in back of the bottom swell out that the prick-head makes the widest part of the apparatus. At the same time, because he was reaching down into her cunt and maddening the inner lips with his ministrations, she was making a kind of hum of joy. A woman with a prick in her mouth can't articulate sexy words, or sing the Song of Solomon, but she can get a hum going that vibrates the prick-head even if she doesn't know what she is doing.

The moment came at which Hank Hastings had to ask her to let go. He had waited almost too long. For an instant he stared down at his throbbing prick and tried to control it by wishing it not to come.

She too stared at it. If it had squirted she would have gotten a messy face. Probably would have enjoyed that. But after a few seconds of hanging at the very edge of orgasm, the semen retreated to its reservoir, leaving Hank shaken.

Now she wanted to please him! "You want me to do that again? I mean, get you awfully near coming and then you can subside and then I'll work you up again? Isn't that the way the Italian playboys do it?"

"Little girl, you do that to me again and you'll have to carry me to my plane. Little girl, prepare to lose your cherry."

"Just let me imagine something first," she begged. "Just let me imagine I'm lying on a bed of roses and you are not a human man, you are a satyr, with hoofs instead of feet, and tiny horns, and shaggy fur on your body."

Nothing like a classical education, Hank thought as he probed the shivering outer cunt lips with his restored and cunt-hungry pecker.

And got half of the head's length, no more, in-between the outer lips, letting the head bathe in virginal but plentiful juices.

He held the lips apart with his hand and pressed on into the pink passage to paradise.

"Do it," she whispered. "Do it."

She humped up against him. "Do it, oh, do it!"

The prick slid slowly in. The tissues stretched and made room. Talk about hot boxes! How hot would her box be after she had been fucked twenty times! Perhaps he could arrange to find out. When his prick met resistance he paused and moved the rod to one side and the other, probing.

"There, there!" she cried.

He pushed at the resistance. She did not cry out, but made hissing sounds, as though struggling to control pain. But it could not have been bad, because when the cherry gave way she humped up against him with all her strength to get him in deeper.

In just a few more seconds she got the jisum leaping out of his turgid prick in great gobs. But those seconds had been memorable seconds.

When he slowly pulled out a limp and satisfied prick, he saw blood on the sheet that they had rumpled with their sexual strivings.

"Well," said Leona, regarding the evidence, "we are Mr. and Mrs. William Watkins, newlyweds, aren't we? And by the way. You didn't even notice. Look. While I was shopping I even bought a wedding ring."

This little girl will go far, thought Hank Hastings.

He had a plane to fly, so he checked the time by glancing out at Big Ben. Five PM, Greenwich Meridian time.

Eleven AM in Chicago. Where he would arrive tomorrow. And catch up on fucking Helen, and that was really something to look forward to.