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From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2003 13:43:15 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} "Walking the Dog" Chs 1-4 (M/F, cons)
Date: Thu, 16 Jan 2003 12:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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I was originally intending to write this for the song festival but that one
got away!


WALKING THE DOG

Chapter One


It was a flat November morning, a morning when colours run and the mist hung
in the jaws of the estuary above the liver-coloured flott. A slatternly wind
was ruffling the tussocks of coarse grass that grew along the littoral,
doing nothing to shift the grey curtain. The air smelt of salt and older,
darker things. Even the normally raucous gulls were muted, their endless
carping muffled by the damp air. No horizon was discernible. The sky
coalesced into the iron water, leaching all colours into unrelieved
gradations of greyness. Only the dogs seemed unconcerned. They pursued their
normal doggy rituals of sniffing at and pissing on every small feature they
encountered on the beach. I trudged behind them, collar turned against the
cold, pockets stuffed with icy hands. I called them away from worrying at a
dead crab. I love my dogs but their habits are distinctly unsavoury. Their
world is roughly divided between food and not-food. Sometimes the boundaries
blur.

The morning suited my mood. I'd come up to the cottage this weekend to get
away from London. The cottage belonged to some sympathetic friends. "You
need a break," they said, "why not use our place in Norfolk." I agreed in a
moment of weakness. I guess in Samuel Johnson's eyes I was tired of life.
London held no attraction for me since I split with Steph. We'd been
together for about four years. Suddenly, instead of my Earth being flat and
stable, she'd let me know it was really round and spinning. I wasn't
'exciting anymore,' whatever that means. I'd never felt particularly
exciting. Steph provided all the brightness in my dull little lawyer's life.
If I'm completely honest, the world of restaurants and wine bars through
which she sparkled like a meteor was alien to me. I tagged on to her coat
tails with a fixed grin and an open wallet. The denizens of these places all
seemed to know Steph. In their eyes, I was as much an accessory as her
Hermes scarves or Gucci handbags, just less explicable.

I'd met her quite by chance in a little gallery in the Fulham Road. The one
fruit of my success that I truly enjoy is collecting bronze miniatures. She
was in there with another woman, gushing over a small piece by an unknown
artist called Angela Sable. I'd bought it a couple of weeks previously and
had just popped in to collect it. Conversation was inevitable. The three of
us went to a coffee shop to continue the discussion on the merits of Auguste
Renoir. The other woman, I don't recall her name, left after about twenty
minutes. I took Steph to supper at Green's. Things progressed from there.
Within six months she'd moved into my home in Kensington and had started
rearranging my life. My wardrobe underwent the first transformation. It's
now full of Dior and Balmain. My Crombie overcoat and Sackville suits were
laughed out of court. "You're so predictable, Darling. You dress like a
lawyer!" I reminded her that I am a lawyer; it cut no ice.

Steph glided through life, I plodded. I've always been a plodder. I'm a
'details' sort of person; Steph was broad-brush. That was all part of the
attraction. I was thirty-seven, unmarried and reasonably successful.
Actually, that's too modest, very successful. Although I'm a barrister, I've
rarely appeared in Court. I'm a tax specialist. I provide opinions for smart
arses who want to sail close the wind. Steph thought I should be more
glamorous but Tax isn't sexy, it's just very well paid. Before Steph, my
life was simple. I worked; I walked my dogs. Winters were for ski-ing
holidays in Cervinia and summers were spent in Scotland or the Isles. She
was right, I was, am, predictable. But there is comfort in certainty. Steph
changed all that.

In Steph's mind, summers were to be spent at House Parties in Tuscany.
Ski-ing was to be at Klosters or St Moritz. Dog walking was to remain my
solitary occupation. Sensible shoes didn't figure in Steph's wardrobe and as
for picking up dog-logs in Kensington Gardens, well!  I went along with it.
She brought something into my life that hadn't been there before. I won't
say it was missing. That would suggest that I felt the lack. Steph was a
member of another species whose existence I'd barely believed in, like
Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. She moved in different circles. My few
friends were bemused by her and she by them. Sometimes a sympathetic glance
would be cast in my direction as if to say, 'what have you got yourself into
this time?' I didn't have an answer.

Of course it couldn't last. Could I say it was fun while it lasted? Probably
not. I didn't have fun; I had Steph. I was consumed by love, blind as
Oedipus. The inevitable happened. She collided with another meteor. I got
burned in the fall-out. All of which led me to a Norfolk beach on that
dismal November morning. Once I was there, I couldn't help wondering if I
wouldn't have been better off staying in London. Still, the dogs were
enjoying themselves.

I have a Siberian Husky called Trotsky and a Retriever called Magic, because
he's black. I don't usually let Trotsky run free because he's a bolshie sod
and is liable to vanish into the next county, if the mood takes him.
However, that morning, with no one else in sight, I'd let him go and he and
Magic were thoroughly enjoying the change of scenery. Kensington Gardens is
a good place by London standards but this was real freedom. They were
oblivious to the weather and Magic was charging in and out of the sea,
always contriving to shake himself violently next to me. It's some kind of
unwritten doggy law. Trotsky was behaving himself for a change and living up
to his name as he followed his nose along the tidemark. I shambled along
between them wishing I'd put another pair of socks on under my wellies. It
wasn't that cold really, it was the damp that seemed to penetrate and chill
my bones to the marrow. Moisture clung to my coat in grey pearls. All in
all, I was thoroughly miserable.

We'd gone just over a mile when I saw another figure, bundled against the
weather, trudging up the beach towards me. Trotsky chose that moment to
disgrace himself and took off like a cream and brown rocket straight for the
stranger. Magic started to follow but responded to my whistle. I could see
Trotsky bouncing up at the figure. Whoever it was didn't seem concerned,
thank God. They were ruffling his fur and pushing him away in a playful
manner. He can be a complete tart to strangers. If I try to play with him,
he'll gaze at me with injured dignity writ large in his ice blue eyes. He
fawns all over someone new as if to say 'look at me, love me!' Huskies aren'
t all that common in England so he usually attracts lots of attention. He
laps it up. Magic, on the hand, is your typical Flat-coated Retriever; sunny
disposition but as daft as a brush. I swear that dog has brains he hasn't
used yet.

As I drew closer, I could see Trotsky's playmate was a young-ish woman. Dark
brown hair stuck out from under a woolly fisherman's hat. She wore a thick
quilted jacket over a chunky Arran sweater, cord trousers and wellies.
Trotsky was still going through his 'bounce and bow' routine and she was
laughing. "I seem to have found an admirer," she said. Her voice was low and
well modulated with just the trace of an accent I couldn't place. "I do
apologise," I replied, "I'm afraid he has no manners." Magic wandered up,
dismissed her as a source of potential food, and wandered off back to the
water. She turned to look at me. Her eyes were every bit as piercing as
Trotsky's. "Who needs manners when you're beautiful?" She turned back to the
dog, "You are beautiful, aren't you?" He gave her his famous husky grin -
all teeth and lolling tongue - then wandered back to me with a hint of
innate superiority in his stride.

"I have not seen you down on this beach before. Are you a visitor?"

"Yes. Just up for the weekend. I'm staying in the old Coastguard Cottage. It
belongs to some friends. I take it you live here?"

"Yes. The tranquillity is good for me. Very few people come here after the
summer."

"What do you find to do in such an out-of-the-way place?"

"I sculpt."

This made my ears prick up. There aren't too many sculptors that I haven't
heard of. Sculpting is still largely a male preserve, at least among the
commercially successful. The cogs whirled and something clicked into place.
"Good God," I said, "I think I know you! I mean, I think I know who you are.
You're Angela Sable." She smiled.

"I am, but how did you know? Someone in the village, perhaps?"

"No, no. I have three of your pieces. They're among my favourites."

"Ah, you are a collector?"

"In a modest way. I always wanted to be a sculptor but I lacked that vital
ingredient called talent. I'm Martin Booth, by the way, and this
disreputable animal is Trotsky."

"Pleased to meet you, Trotsky." She laughed out loud as he wagged his great
bush of a tail and gave her his best play-growl. "It is truly a horrid
morning, this mist! What is the other dog called?"

"Oh, that's Magic. You like dogs then?"

"I adore them. I would like to do this one. I've never done animals. I think
he would look grand in bronze."

I tried to imagine what Trotsky would like in a Bronze by Angela Sable. All
her pieces were figure studies but were tortured somehow; both riveting and
painful at the same time. She saw the look on my face. "Oh no," she said, "
him I would do natural."

"How long have you lived in Norfolk?"

"Almost ten years now. I came here when I came to England. It reminds me a
little of home."

"Where is home, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I am an Estonian, Mr Booth. What your newspapers would describe as an
'economic migrant'."

That explained her accent and slightly odd, formal phrasing. I've never
visited Estonia so I couldn't say whether it the flat Norfolk coast would
remind her of it, but I suppose the Baltic can be just as depressing as the
North Sea in winter. "Look," I said, "I know it's terribly forward of me,
but would it be possible to see your studio? I am fascinated by sculpture;
not just the finished article but also the process." She looked at me
shrewdly and considered for a moment. "Very well. It is not inconvenient
today. I live down there." She waved a hand at a low building set back from
the beach about a half a mile away. " Shall we say at Two O'clock?"  "Thank
you, that is really very kind of you. Two O'clock it is." We chatted a
little longer about the dogs, who were now getting bored with standing
around, and went our separate ways.

I spent the rest of the morning doing some 'reading in' for a new case I'd
been instructed on. It was fairly routine stuff on Capital Gains Tax and
should be what Bernie, my clerk, describes a 'nice little quickie, Mr Booth.
' The dogs were flaked out on the hall carpet so after a quick sandwich and
yet another cup of coffee, I set out for Angela Sable's studio. The wind had
picked up during the morning, turning icy, and the mist had lifted, at least
for the moment. I strode along the coast path. The grey sea was flecked with
dirty white spume and the light was already fading although it was early
afternoon. I didn't need to have seen a weather forecast to know that we
were in for a bit of a blow.

The studio turned out to be a little row of old fishermen's cottages that
had been knocked into one. I supposed in the old days, whole families would
have lived in two or three cramped rooms. Angela must have seen me coming
for she me met at the door. "Very punctual," she said, "Please come in."
Inside the hall, the extent of the alterations was apparent. To my left was
a large room that served as her main studio. The ceiling had been taken out
and large skylights set into the roof. It was a jumble of tool racks and
trestle tables. Something I took to be a small electric furnace stood at one
end with a high tech ventilation arrangement that looked like a space-age
cooker hood. Through the open door on my right, I could see a small parlour
with a couple of old but comfortable-looking armchairs and a very modern
hi-fi system. There were a couple of other doors off the hall, which I took
to be the rest of the accommodation.

She led me into the parlour. "Which of my poor pieces do you own?" she said,
folding herself into one of the chairs and indicating for me to take the
other. "Oh, 'Ivan#42', 'The Greek Woman' and 'Self Portrait'. And they are
not 'poor pieces', they're masterpieces." She laughed. "You flatter me, Mr
Booth." I shook my head. "Not at all," I said, "and please, call me Martin."
"Very well, it shall be Martin, then and Angela, too, I think?" I smiled and
nodded. Without the heavy layers of clothing I could see she was quite
slightly built. Her dark brown hair was cut severely, framing her face.
There were a couple of streaks of grey at her temples. Her complexion was
pale but not unhealthy-looking. Despite the grey in her hair, her face was
unlined. I guessed her age to be around thirty-two or three but I'm really
hopeless at that. She could have been five years either side. The most
striking thing was her piercing blue eyes. I want to say they were
cornflower blue but that isn't quite right. They were harder than that, more
steely. Her gaze seemed to reach inside me and search out all my secrets.
She held eye contact all the time; it was quite disconcerting at first. I
could see some men might see it as a challenge. I don't have that kind of
ego.

We talked easily for a while. More accurately, she asked questions and I
answered them. I may not be a trial lawyer but I'm still enough of a
barrister to recognise cross-examination. I had the vague impression that
she was testing me for some purpose of her own. After a while, she seemed
satisfied and said, "Good! Come now and we will look at the studio."

We moved through into the larger room I had glimpsed when I arrived. It soon
became apparent that it was a lot more orderly than my first impression had
suggested. She explained the process she used for casting bronze.

"It depends on the size of the piece. Sometimes I use 'lost wax' and
sometimes I cast in sand. The ancients used both methods, you know."

She showed me how she started with the model and used this to make the
mould. Some artists use modern materials for the moulds but she stuck to
either plaster or sand mixed with motor oil. I was surprised at first but
then she explained that it was like children playing on a beach. You need to
moisten the sand so it sticks together. Water would just evaporate whereas
motor oil has a naturally sticky consistency. Each of her pieces was a
one-off so she didn't mind destroying the mould to liberate the finished
bronze. The whole studio was set up like a mini production line.

Angela answered my questions with patience and the semblance, at least, of
real interest. I think she thought at first that my professed interest in
seeing the studio was some reverse play on the 'come up stairs and see my
etchings' ploy. Once she realised that I was genuinely absorbed by what I
saw, she relaxed. It would be wrong to say she thawed for she was never
unfriendly. She was just less guarded and more inclined to expound, rather
than just limiting her answers to simple factual replies.

We must have spent over two hours in that studio. Suddenly she noticed the
time and became flustered. It was nearly Five O'clock by then and full dark
outside. To tell the truth I wasn't relishing the walk home through the
strengthening gale and the rain that set in at some point during the
afternoon. As a result, I'd probably spun things out a bit. What was clear,
however, was that I had suddenly out-stayed my welcome. I put on my coat and
made my farewells. She recovered enough composure to see me to the door with
a smile. She even agreed to accept my invitation to lunch the following day.
I had a vague uneasy feeling that she had accepted too readily. We agreed to
meet at the local Inn at 12.30 and I left. Her relief was almost palpable.

I butted my way back along the coast path against the wind and driving rain.
I was pretty well soaked and chilled to the bone by the time I got home. The
dogs were pleased to see me, of course, but then it was their dinnertime. I
fed the animals and then myself, lit a fire in the parlour grate and settled
down for the evening. There was an old TV in the corner but a quick scan of
the newspaper told me there was nothing I wanted to watch. I decided to open
a bottle of my favourite Gevry Chambertin, get a plate of cheese and spend
the evening in the company of a good book.

The dogs reacted to the fire in their own characteristic ways. Magic got so
close I could smell his fur starting to singe and Trotsky sought out the
coldest spot in the room, as far away as possible. Both curled up and went
to sleep. Outside the wind was now distinctly audible and every now and
again, another squall would drive the rain to rattle against the windows. I
enjoyed some primitive atavistic satisfaction from being snug inside on such
a wild night. I do enjoy a good storm - as long as I'm not out in it.

I couldn't concentrate on the book. My grasshopper mind kept flitting from
Steph to Angela Sable and back again. I don't think it would be possible to
get two more different women. I was going through that 'jilted lover' stage
of finding fault with my ex; trying, unsuccessfully, to make myself believe
I was best out of the relationship. I could admit to all her faults but
still the pain stalked me in the recesses of the night. I confronted myself
with the truth: I had always known what she was but loved in spite of it;
maybe because of it, who knows?

Steph was tall and voluptuous. I don't know what her natural hair colour was
as she seemed to have a standing appointment at Tony and Guy. Every time she
came out of the salon, she was a slightly different shade of blonde.
Highlights came and went. Her body offered no other clues, she had had all
her hair removed by laser treatment and was smooth as silk. Her personality
was essentially frivolous, purely hedonistic. Whenever I tried, I found it
hard to think of a single thing for which Steph had ever evinced the
slightest passion, other than herself, of course.

Angela Sable was something else again. Her hair was natural, even down to
the odd streak of grey that she made no attempt to cover. She possessed an
intensity; something smouldered deep within her. I felt she was driven. I
was puzzled, however, by her sudden agitation and spent a little while
trying to come up with an explanation for the rapid change in her demeanour.
My ideas ranged from the banal to the fanciful; but nothing I could think of
rang true. I would have to ask her outright when we met for lunch tomorrow.
I sipped the wine and nibbled at the cheese and listened to the storm huff
and puff around the house. One of the dogs was dreaming, giving out a series
of muffled yipping noises as his paws twitched. What do dogs dream of? I bet
their dreams are good ones. For one thing, they wouldn't involve Steph.

Chapter Two

I was up early the next day and braved the tail end of the storm to walk the
dogs along the beach. The waves were high enough to deter Magic from
swimming so he ran around in circles and tried to interest Trotsky in some
rough-and-tumble. Huskies are the strangest beasts. That morning Trotsky was
very much on his dignity and Retriever Games were not on his agenda. He
stalked along the tide line, sniffing at the flotsam thrown up by the storm.
I threw sticks for Magic to fetch but, in truth, he has never really got the
hang of retrieving. He'd run off and grab the stick, bring it back to me and
then plonk himself down on the shingly sand to chew it to death.

The wind was still quite strong but at least the rain had stopped. It was
bitterly cold. We walked for about an hour before heading back to the warmth
of the cottage. I packed up my things so as to be ready for the drive back
to London after lunch. I dislike driving in the dark and hoped to be away by
mid afternoon. Hopefully this would get me back into Town before the light
failed entirely.

I had arranged to meet Angela in a pub called the Lord Nelson, named for
Norfolk's most famous son. I was early and slipped into the warmth of the
snug Saloon Bar, which was already starting to fill with lunchtime drinkers.
Listening to the accents, it was obvious that few locals patronised the
place at weekends. Most of the people were 'second homers', up from London,
as I was. I ordered a pint of Adnam's Best Bitter and found myself a table
where I could watch the door and be easily seen when she came in.

She didn't show. By One O'clock I decided I'd been stood up. It wasn't a
great surprise after all; we'd only just met. I'd invited myself to her
studio, which must have looked pretty intrusive. Normally it's one of those
things you just put down to experience but for some reason, this time, I
couldn't let it go. It nagged at me. I finished my pint and headed off over
to the studio. Shock stopped me in my tracks as I reached the front door.

The place was wide open. Even from the doorway, I could see at a glance it
had been trashed. I rushed in, thinking the worst. There was no sign of
Angela but the studio had been totally wrecked. The casts she had shown me
that waited burnishing had been smashed. The floor was littered with shards
of plaster; even the furnace had been toppled onto its side. My relief at
not finding Angela in the middle of all this mess was replaced by a sense of
panic. I called the police on my mobile and waited outside for them to
arrive.

Had this been the middle of London, I don't think they would have managed to
raise any interest but this was rural Norfolk. Things like this don't happen
there. They were with me in less than ten minutes. There were two uniformed
Bobbies and a plain-clothes man who quickly took charge. I explained about
Angela's no show at the Pub and what I'd done since. He looked narrowly
suspicious but warmed a little when he took my details. There really wasn't
much I could tell them so I told them everything. Meeting her on the beach,
my visit the previous afternoon, her anxiety when she realised how late it
had got.

So much for driving home while it was light. It was around Six by the time I
finished giving my statement at the Police Station in Cromer. The traffic
was really heavy when I finally hit the outskirts of London so it was almost
Ten O'clock when I got back home. Angela's disappearance, they were now
calling it that, made the main News. I got mentioned as the visitor who'd
raised the alarm, not by name, thank God! There wasn't anything else I could
do so I had an early night. Not that it did me much good. Between the
intrusions of Steph and Angela Sable, I hardly slept.

I staggered into Chambers on the Monday morning, bleary eyed and panting
from the cold. My Chambers are in the Middle Temple and not that easy to
find so I was quite surprised when Bernie, the clerk, told me that I had a
visitor. Bernie was clearly put out. A clerk to Chambers controls access to
his barristers, hands out the briefs and keeps the appointments diary. I
shrugged when he started pumping me. "All very 'secret squirrel', Mr Booth."
I certainly hadn't made any appointments and found myself hoping, for one
brief and glorious moment, it was Steph. This lasted only as long as it took
Bernie to say "I put the gentleman in the juniors' office." Bernie wanted to
say more but I nodded my acknowledgement and went in to meet my mystery man.

He had the sort of face to which it is easy to take an instant dislike. He
was about my age with smooth features and slightly over-long hair. The
tailoring was definitely Saville Row and the hand he offered me as he rose
to greet me had been expensively manicured. The Jermyn Street shirt and
Hermes tie only confirmed my suspicions. He was either a property developer
or a senior civil servant. He turned out to be the latter. He introduced
himself as Edgar Smythe and I had the strange certainty that this was not
his real name. When he claimed to be from the Foreign Office, I knew exactly
 what he was: a spook.

"Mr Booth, I understand that you reported the disappearance of Ms Angela
Sable to the Norfolk Constabulary?"

I agreed that I had and started to explain but he cut across me.

"Let me tell you a story about Angela Sable, Mr Booth. It's not her real
name, of course."

"I knew that. She told me that she took it from the French word for sand.
Apparently her Estonian name means 'sand'. She found the English word lacked
something, so she used French. I'm not aware using an alias is yet a crime
unless one sets out to deliberately deceive by so doing," I said pointedly.

"Quite so, quite so. My story concerns Ms Sable's father. It appears he was
a Colonel in the Soviet armed forces; in the Spetsnaz to be precise, whom,
as you may know."

".Are the Russian, or should I say used to be the Soviet, Special Forces."

 "You are well informed, Mr Booth," he said, with just the trace of sarcasm
in his voice. I gave him my most urbane smile and refused to rise. He
continued.

"The Colonel made a name for himself in the unpleasantness in Afghanistan.
As you may also know, the Soviets used a lot of troops from the satellite
states there. It was their way of managing the bad news and keeping the
truth about their casualty rates from the Russian people."

"As opposed to our own dear enlightened Government who just lie."

"Ah, not a fan of New Labour, Mr Booth? I'd have thought that your
profession would have taken them to your bosoms, seeing how very well you're
represented in the cabinet and elsewhere."

I grunted. He was alluding to the fact that both the Prime Minister and his
wife were once in Chambers not too far from my own. "You were telling me
about Angela's father, I believe." He smiled again, but it didn't reach his
eyes.

"Yes indeed. The Colonel was a junior officer back in Afghanistan but a
highly effective one. He gained promotion and a transfer to Spetsnaz. Our
boy is, or rather was, a bit of a hard man. His only soft spot was for his
two daughters, Angelika and Vika. We all know the wheels came off the Soviet
Union in the early 90's. It was a mad time, a touch of the Wild West about
it."

His eyes took on a distant look and I got the strong impression that he had
been there when 'the wheels came off,' as he put it.

"To cut a long story short, the good Colonel turns out to have more than a
passing resemblance to the Vicar of Bray. When the Reds were in the driving
seat, he was a good communist; exit Gorbachev and our man is Yeltsin's
staunchest ally. I'm sure you get the picture?

"Rumours started to circulate in the late 90's that a large amount of
Russian Federation foreign exchange had gone missing, largely D-marks and
sterling, which is odd because most of the ex-Soviet hoods went for US
dollars in a big way. At this point the good Colonel drops out of sight. He
re-emerged a couple of years later in Gothenburg. He lost a short but
valiant fight against cancer in a Swedish sanatorium and officially turned
up his little pointed toes two years ago. We thought at first that this was
a 'ruse de guerre' but we checked and it seems kosher. However, there was no
trace of the missing millions.

"At this point some particularly nasty gentlemen appeared from out of the
woodwork searching for the Colonel's Holy Grail. Attention focussed on Vika,
at first. She had accompanied her dear Papa to Sweden. She turned up in a
canal in Stockholm a few weeks back. Poor Vika. It appears she didn't know
anything after all."

"How can you say?"

"The Knights of the Grail came after your Ladyfriend. Angelika seems to have
been something of a black sheep. She split with the family at the beginning
of the nineties and moved west, first to Barcelona, where she studied Art
and then to Britain by way of Paris and Frankfurt. She settled in the UK at
the beginning of '93. About this time she changed her name and became Angela
Sable, talented but struggling sculptor. With, and this is the bit that has
everyone jumping, no visible means of support. A quick check on her bank
records shows someone paid the rent and slipped her �500 a month from a Bank
in Liechtenstein. We were wondering if that someone was you?"

I almost laughed; the idea was preposterous. Instead I gave him my best
lawyer's poker face.

"Mr Smythe, I told you and I told the Police, I met Ms Sable for the first
time on Saturday, purely by chance. Prior to that, well, I knew of her. I
bought three of her pieces through a Gallery in the Fulham Road. I can tell
you no more. But you might tell me why Her Majesty's Government are
interested. I can see that it is a matter for the Police but where precisely
do MI5 or 6 come in?"

He gave a tight smile and bowed to acknowledge my identification of him was
close, if not entirely accurate.

"Let us just say that the Foreign Office was asked for assistance by the
Russian Federation Foreign Ministry in tracing a large amount of stolen
currency. Thus far we have been unable to render that assistance. The man
who introduced himself to you yesterday as a Detective Constable in Norfolk
CID was in fact our own Inspector Willis from Special Branch. He went to
Norfolk to interview Ms Sable. I believe he had an appointment to see her at
around 5:30 pm on Saturday. That might explain the agitation you so acutely
observed.

"Unfortunately, when he arrived at her home, she was not there. However,
there were no signs of the disturbance you discovered on Sunday lunchtime."

It was clear to both of us that I could shed no further light on events in
Norfolk. He didn't waste time with small talk and left shortly afterwards.
Bernie rushed in the moment Smythe left the building. "What did Michael the
Mouth want with you then Mr Booth?" He spoke bitterly.

"Who, Bernie?"

"Michael-bloody-Cornell, that's who. Or Mickey the Mouth to his mates in
Special Branch."

"I see, he told me his name was Edgar Smythe. You know him, I take it?"

"Know him? 'Course I bloody know him. He's a fixer for SIS."

SIS, more commonly, if erroneously, known as MI6, is the foreign
intelligence branch of the British Secret Service. They aren't supposed to
have any domestic interests and the history of British Spydom is littered
with cock-ups caused by interdepartmental rivalries. 'Mickey the Mouth' was
obviously a liaison officer between the two branches and Special Branch,
which is actually part of the Metropolitan Police. It didn't surprise me
that Bernie should know him. He had joined our Chambers from another that
specialised in some of the high profile criminal cases, including those
involving terrorism.

I told Bernie the full story. He listened in silence. Finally he said,
"Sounds like Russian Mafia to me, Mr Booth. Best you stay out of it." I
assured him that was precisely what I intended to do but a small voice in
side contradicted me even as I spoke.


Chapter Three

The rest of that week passed normally. I had a slightly uncomfortable
interview with the head of Chambers. He'd found about my uninvited visitor
and wanted to register his concern but was unsure quite what it was that
should concern him. I was taciturn rather than truculent - we never have
seen eye to eye. So it came to Friday and I was having a quiet glass of wine
in El Vino's on Fleet Street. The old wine bar was once the haunt of the
'fourth estate' but since the newspapers had all relocated to Docklands; the
legal profession now claimed it as their own.

I was chatting to couple of 'silks' - Queen's Counsels - when Joachim called
me from behind the bar. "Telephone for Mr Booth!" He pronounced it 'Boot'
but I'd heard his mangling of my name often enough to know he meant me.

"Hello, Martin Booth speaking."

"Mr Booth, thank Gawd I've caught you."

"Bernie! What's the panic?"

"There's a young lady to see you Mr Booth, here in Chambers!"

"Do we have a name, Bernie or have you been unusually coy?"

"She won't give no name, Mr Booth, just says it's very urgent."

"Let me see, Five foot Eight and Blonde?"

"No, Mr Booth, about Five Six and dark with very blue eyes."

"I'll be right there."

I dashed back to the Temple. It had to be Angela Sable. I didn't know
whether to be relieved or worried. In the end I managed to be both at the
same time. She was sitting in the cubby-hole that passes for a waiting room
in our Chambers. She rose as I came in and stared at me intently, as if it
were me that was out of place.

"Angela, this a turn-up. What are you doing here and what happened last
Sunday?"

"Hello, Mr Booth."

"It's Martin, remember?"

"Ah yes. Martin. I have no one else to turn to. I need help, Martin. I'm
sorry but you are the only person I could think of."

"OK. Let's get out of here and go somewhere we can talk in private."

She looked hurriedly about her and I indicated Bernie with a flick of my
eyes. She gave the briefest nod of understanding and followed me out. I
cudgelled my brain to think of somewhere we go where we could talk without
being overheard. It was early Friday evening and the pubs and bars in that
part of London were full of people celebrating the weekend. In the end I
gave up and hailed a Black Cab. We went to my place.

I have a small Mews house just off Queensgate. I bought it for a song years
ago, unconverted and run down. It had been a bit of a money pit in the
beginning and my Bank Manager had not looked favourably on a Pupil Barrister
taking on such a pile of debt. Fat lot he knew! Modernised and tarted up, it
's now worth around a million. It's no palace, three rooms, kitchen and
bath, as the Estate Agents would say, but Freehold houses in SW7 are as rare
as hen's back teeth, especially ones with integral garages. Apart from
anything else, it's quiet. No traffic, no pubs, no shops. It suits me very
well. I looked at it as being a good part of my pension. When I call it a
day, London won't see my arse for dust. I'll settle in the country
somewhere, the Cotswolds, maybe.

I showed Angela into the sitting room and asked what she wanted to drink.
She shrugged. Well, if she couldn't be bothered, I'd decide. I opened a
bottle of Chateau Lestage, a very respectable little Haut Medoc. Once she
got the drink in her hand, she couldn't stop talking. It was like a dam
bursting. The whole story of the last week came flooding out of her.

After I had left on the Saturday, two men arrived at her studio. She had
been expecting them. They had contacted her earlier in the week, claiming to
have to have been colleagues of her father. She had been suspicious, but not
overly so. She had left Estonia years before and was not really aware of
what her father had been doing latterly. She knew he had been in the Soviet
Army, of course, but he had never spoken much about it and had been away a
lot, when she was growing up. They hadn't been particularly close and rarely
wrote to each other. She didn't know if these colleagues were from his Red
Army days or more recent times. She only thought to ask after they had hung
up.

The two men arrived, introduced themselves as representatives of the Russian
Federation Ministry of Culture and started talking vaguely about offering
her an exhibition. She grew nervous when it became obvious that neither had
the slightest idea about her work. One of them mentioned 'your paintings.'
Then they started to talk about her father. What a Grand Fellow he had been;
how he must have been proud of his artist daughter. They were about as
subtle as a charging Rhino. They kept asking her if her father had given her
anything for safekeeping, just until his 'comrades' could reclaim it. She
said she had nothing - had never had anything - of her father's.

They clumped about some more and left with vague promises of being in touch.
Once they had gone, she called the Russian Embassy. They confirmed her
suspicions that there were no Ministry of Culture representatives currently
in the UK and that the Cultural Attach� was presently in Edinburgh with the
Ballet. Angela said that she had lived long enough under Russian occupation
to know that all of this meant trouble. She was scared, she said. She
thought of coming to see me but didn't feel she could involve someone she'd
only just met. She worried late into the evening and decided it was high
time to get out of there, to go to ground, so to speak.

She packed up her few valuable belongings into her old Ford Escort and left
at around midnight. She knew some Estonian friends in Leicester and had
arrived there in the early morning. She slept in the car until it was light
and then went to call on her friends. They had seen the story on the TV
News. They claimed to be worried for her. What had happened? She told them
her story, foolishly, she now said, as they became very interested in what
it might be the men were after. They pumped her about her father. She became
paranoid, jumping at shadows, perhaps, but she had to leave.

On Tuesday she had made her farewells, unable to escape the feeling that
they were desperate for her to stay but didn't know how to compel her to do
so, without giving some kind of game away. She had fled, aimlessly. She
stayed that night and the next in a Bed-and Breakfast in Shropshire. Then,
she reasoned, if people were truly after her, they would have her car
registration and description. She sold the car for �500 to a dealer in
Oswestry and caught a train to Birmingham. She stayed in Birmingham one
night and resolved to find me. She had gone to the City Library and found me
in a Legal Directory. She was afraid to telephone so she decided to come to
Chambers. She'd waited in Temple Court until the area quietened down and had
slipped into our Chambers just as Bernie was about to lock up.

She had a little money but not enough to live for long in London. Throughout
her story she was calm, rational and held me with those ice eyes. Magic sat
at her feet with his head on her lap, fixing her with his adoring gaze that
he gives anyone who sits still long enough. Trotsky, being Trotsky, ignored
us both. There was silence when she finished. My brain was whirling. There
was something rotten about all this but I couldn't think what it was for the
life of me. I'm a boring bloody Tax Barrister, for Christ's sake! I'm no
James Bond. I liked Angela, admired her immensely as a sculptor, but that
didn't seem enough to have me cast as the 'Knight in Shining Armour.' I
suppose I must have just sat there with a stupid expression on my face for a
full five minutes. She didn't say another word, just fixed me with her
Nordic gaze. Eventually, I had to say something.

"You can stay here tonight, at least. I need time to think."

"Of course. It is most kind of you, Martin."

"Not at all, not at all. I, umm, I'm a bit stumped, to tell you the truth."

"Stumped?"

"Oh, puzzled. I mean, do you know anything about this 'thing' of your father
's that you're supposed to have?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I haven't seen him in over ten years and we have
not been close friends."

I told her about my conversation with 'Mickey the Mouth.' Unless she was a
superb actress, the shock on her face was genuine. She hadn't known about
her sister, Vika's death. I asked her about her appointment with the man
from Special Branch. She was genuinely surprised. The only appointment she
had was with the two Russians; she knew nothing of any British policemen.
Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice would have said. I was now completely
flummoxed. My instinct was to get straight on the phone to our friend Mickey
and tell all. Something held me back, though. For whatever reason, the whole
situation was starting to make my flesh crawl.

Angela hadn't eaten anything all day so I suggested dinner. There are a
number of little Bistros in the area immediately around Queensgate. She
shook her head emphatically. She didn't want to go out - she wouldn't feel
at ease. So we agreed to stay in and I nipped down to the nearest Waitrose
in Gloucester Road and picked us up some steaks and a pre-packed salad.
Fifteen minutes later we were tucking in and another bottle of Lestage was
called for. She began to relax a bit as the wine went down and for the first
time since Steph left, I found myself enjoying company over dinner.

I made her up the spare bed in my study and we parted for the night feeling
quite mellow. She said the dogs made her feel safe. I didn't disabuse her
that they would both be utterly useless if anyone tried to break in. Trotsky
would ignore any intruder and Magic would try to lick them death. I don't
keep them for their machismo!

I lay awake a long while trying to make sense of everything I had seen and
heard.  Item: Angela's studio had been thoroughly trashed. Item: The police
and presumably, the Security Services, were taking it very seriously. The
opposition, whoever they were, were also playing hardball. They had
apparently got to Angela's friends in Leicester. I had just decided to go
straight to Michael Cornell, aka Mickey the Mouth, when sleep finally
claimed me.

Everything looked much better the next morning. It was one of those
delightful, crisp winter mornings when the sun shone and the light had the
diffused golden quality of a Turner painting. I was up early and Angela soon
joined me in the kitchen where the dogs were bouncing vertically in their
excitement at the prospect of the morning walk. We strolled up Queensgate
and crossed the road into the Park. We wandered eastwards behind the giant
wedding cake that is the Albert Memorial. There was hardly anyone about at
that hour and we walked in companionable silence, like two old friends just
out walking the dog. Angela threw a ball for Magic to practice his
retrieving and Trotsky sniffed and pissed his way along a little in front of
me. I was starting to feel that the whole thing could be cleared up very
quickly. All we had to do was go and see Cornell, explain that Angela knew
nothing, hadn't seen her family in years. He could report that back to the
Russians and the heat would move off in some other direction. Sometimes you
just know it's wishful thinking, even as you're doing it.

A sudden thought struck me. "Angela," I said, "Cornell also said something
about money. He said someone is paying your rent from a bank in
Liechtenstein. I think he thinks it was your father." She shrugged. "He's
wrong. It is an old German Lady who chose to be my patron. Her name is Helga
Meyer. I have her address in Frankfurt so he can check." I felt a sense of
relief. The only mystery now remaining was why she did not know about the
interview with Special Branch. We walked on around the gardens, cut up to
Hyde Park and watched as Magic threw himself enthusiastically into the
Serpentine for his morning swim. There were a few more people around now and
I found myself growing more and more uneasy. I suggested we should head back
home and was mightily relieved when we got indoors. Just because I'm
paranoid doesn't mean that they're not out to get me.

I made coffee and we sat down in the lounge. It was time for a plan of
action. I had barely begun to organise my scattered thoughts when the phone
rang.

"Mr Booth? It's Bernie"

"Bernie! To what do I owe the honour of a call on a Saturday morning?"

"It's Mickey the Mouth, Mr Booth. I was having a couple of jars with some
old mates from Kings Bench Walk and I happened to mention he'd been sneaking
about Chambers. Well it seems our Mickey is no longer persona grata with our
friends in Vauxhall." (He meant the Security and Intelligence Service.)

"The bastard got the elbow, Mr Booth, and is now a freelance. The word is
that he's mixing in some dodgy company these days. I thought you ought to
know, like, seeing as it was you he was sniffing around."

I thanked Bernie for the information but didn't know what to make of it.
Only one thing was clear. We needed help. Someone was far too interested in
Angela's whereabouts for it to be healthy. For whatever reason, it now
appeared that I was well and truly involved. You didn't need to be a genius
to figure out that Michael Cornell, and whomever he was now working for,
could find me easily enough. I've never made a secret of my address and my
number is the phone book. If they realised that Angela had made contact with
me, it wouldn't be too long before we had a visit. I decided it was time to
send for reinforcements.

I immediately thought of the O'Farrell twins. Liam and Niall O'Farrell were
old school friends and typical of the sort of 'muscular Christians' turned
out by Ampleforth. I will never know why we became friends. They were
robust, athletic boys and I was much more the academic type. For some
reason, they 'adopted' me and I had good cause to be grateful for their
friendship many times during my school days. Without them, I would have been
bullied unmercifully.

They had joined the army after leaving school and attended the Royal
Military Academy at Sandhurst. From there they had joined the Parachute
Regiment and served with distinction during the Gulf War. They left the army
in 1999 and had set up a Security Consultancy. I had loaned them the capital
to get started and made a few introductions. They quickly gained a
reputation for efficiency and discretion and had repaid my loan within two
years. If anyone could help me sort out this mess, it was the O'Farrells.
Within an hour of my phone call, they were on my doorstep.

If you met one O'Farrell, you'd be impressed. Meeting two can be
intimidating. They were, of course, exceedingly fit and, apart from the odd
tinge of grey in their black curls, looked ten years younger than their
thirty-seven years. They stood a couple of inches under six feet and seemed
to be almost as wide. Liam sported a spectacular broken nose but otherwise
they were utterly identical. In another life they could have been absolute
thugs but God had given them a different nature and they were possessed of
sunny dispositions that seemed to shine out from their lively green eyes. I
have never known them but they seemed to be always on the point of breaking
into a smile. It was something of a shock, then, to see them so grim-faced
when they arrived.

I had outlined the problem to Niall on the telephone and he had briefed
Liam. Their first words were "You're being watched, old son."


Chapter Four

I had never seen Liam and Niall in action before. They walked into the house
and took over. Half an hour later we were being hustled out of the door and
into Niall's Range Rover. We had been instructed to pack a bag with spare
clothes and were to be taken a 'safehouse.' Niall gave his best
impersonation of Michael Schumacher to shake off any tail and an hour or two
later we were speeding down country lanes to the west of London. Trotsky and
Magic in the back were not happy as the car made its split-arse turns
through the winding roads. After a while we arrived at the house, a small
picturesque cottage just outside that Berkshire village made famous for its
concentration of racing stables. I should have guessed. The O'Farrells had
that Irish passion for horse racing.

The place belonged to a well known Trainer and friend of the twins. "Don't
get too comfortable," said Liam. "We're only here for the night. You can bet
the opposition will soon know you called us and they can make the connection
to this place pretty quickly. Niall is sorting something else out." Angela
appeared to have gone into a state of shock, shaken, no doubt, by the speed
of events. I just reverted to my childhood and let the twins take over - it
had been like that in school - and they were the experts.

We sat around the dining room table and worried once more at the puzzle.
Angela sat quietly and would only nod or reply 'yes' or 'no' when called
upon to confirm some detail or other. Niall prepared some unidentifiable
gloop in the microwave and we ate supper in silence. Niall produced a bottle
of Bushmills and we sipped the whiskey as we carried on trying to find a
solution. I was still in favour of going to the police but Niall and Liam
were adamant. Until we knew just who was involved, that was not an option.
It seemed clear that the mysterious plain-clothes man from Norfolk was in on
the affair, unless, of course, that was just disinformation by
Mickey-the-Mouth. The only thing that Angela could not, or would not, accept
was that her father had stolen a large amount of money.

"It is not possible! He was a soldier not a banker. How would he gain access
to foreign currency reserves?"

I had to admit it had us all perplexed. Liam and Niall agreed with Angela.
As ex-soldiers, they had some feeling of solidarity with another soldier,
even if he was a Colonel of Spetsnaz. "She has a point," said Liam and Niall
concurred. "I don't see how he would have had the access or the contacts. It
's been pretty hard to move money through the European Banking system since
1994. The anti Money Laundering rules are pretty tight now. You'd have to
good contacts in the banking system or organised crime. It's possible, I
suppose, but I think it would need a team of people, not just one rogue
soldier."

When I thought about it, I had to agree. I have a number of contacts with
the financial world as a result of my profession. There are plenty of scams
out there but they are usually the work of organised groups. One maverick
acting alone would have little chance of pulling off such a major operation.
But if we discarded the foreign exchange story, what were we left with? We
packed it in at around Eleven. We weren't getting anywhere and Angela was
obviously drained by the sequence of events over the last week.

There were two bedrooms in the cottage. One of the twins would keep watch
while the others slept. Angela looked at me and said, "I stay with you" in a
low voice. No one commented so we settled down in the larger bedroom. It had
two single beds and I threw my bag on the one nearest the window. Angela
disappeared into the bathroom with her bag. I heard the shower running so
wandered back into the lounge. A half-hearted moon, shining through the
light clouds, provided the only light and Liam was sitting in an easy chair
drawn up to one side of the uncurtained window, where he could see without
being seen. "Niall's getting his head down," he said, without turning his
head, his concentration fixed outside. "Problems?" I asked. "Nah, " he said,
"precautions." I left him to it. He had the dogs for company and I was way
out of my depth.

I heard the shower turn off and the bathroom door open and then close. I
took a quick shower myself and headed back to the bedroom with a towel
around my waist. Angela was tucked up in one bed with just her head peeking
out of the covers. I turned out the light and, dropping the towel, slipped
into my bed. Angela stirred slightly.

"Martin?"

"Uh huh"

"I just wanted to say I am grateful. This has been very frightening for me
but with you I feel safe."

"I feel safer with the twins around."

"They are dangerous men, your friends. They remind me of the young men who
used to come to see my father when I was child. They always smiled but I
knew they were deadly"

"Well, Liam and Niall are my oldest friends and they are very definitely on
our side. In fact, they are the only ones I know for sure that are."

"I know, but they still make me a little afraid. Or, I should say rather
that it is because we need men like them that makes me afraid."

"I understand."

"Martin?"

"Yes."

"I really feel I would like to have your arms around me this night. Would
you mind very much if we pushed these beds together?"

I did the honourable thing and obliged her. She snuggled up to me and laid
her head on my shoulder. I found myself wishing I'd taken the time to put on
a pair of shorts after my shower. She was wearing a T-shirt that had ridden
up around her waist and the feel of her soft skin against my side and thigh
was highly arousing. Her arm was across my chest and she clung to me like a
crucifix. I knew from the first that I was attracted to her. OK, she didn't
have Steph's blatant animal sexuality but I found her a lot less threatening
because of it.

I lay still and tried to relax. She hugged me with an intensity that Steph
never managed. After a while I felt some of the tension go out of her and
her breathing became deep and regular. Unfortunately I was wide-awake, with
a beautiful woman asleep on my chest and a raging erection. What was almost
as bad was that my left arm was going to sleep and developing
pins-and-needles. I eased my self away, trying not to wake her. She stirred
briefly and rolled back towards me, flinging her arm over me and her naked
thigh across mine. I could feel the tickling sensation of her pubic hair
against my leg. My erection seemed to double in size. I felt ghastly, like I
was the worst sort of prick imaginable. She wanted a bit of comfort and I
wanted. It was hours before I finally fell asleep.

My dreams were dark and troubled and my rest was fitful.  Each time I awoke,
she was still there, crushing herself against me. Her warm, womanly smell
seemed to fill the soft night. The last time I woke up, just before dawn, my
resistance collapsed completely. Before I knew what I was doing, I buried my
face in her hair and breathed the scent of her. I think I groaned aloud. She
made a small sound of contentment and snuggled in closer.

"Martin? Are you awake?" I was stunned by the sound of her voice. I flirted
with the idea of feigning sleep for a second or two before answering. "Yes,
Angela, I'm awake." She nuzzled my neck.

"I knew you were a good man, Martin, that day we met on the beach. Now you
have held me all night and not slept I think, to protect me."

'If only you knew,' I thought, 'if only you knew.' My unruly cock was
stirring again and I tried desperately to think about something else. She
ran her finger over the stubble on my jaw. "Not so much the English
gentleman now, I think. More like an Estonian peasant," she said and
giggled, a rough, throaty sound that seemed to connect all my sexual
synapses together at once. Her hand suddenly brushed my burgeoning erection
and we gasped in stereo. I expected her to leap back like a scalded cat but
instead she gave another throaty growl and made a grab for it. I think I
bounced off the ceiling.

"Ah, poor Martin! I think I have been unfair."

I tried to stammer a denial but she silenced me with a kiss. It was gentle
and sweet and reached down into the depths of my soul. I don't know if it
was the tiredness or what, but I felt light-headed. She wriggled against me
deliciously. My arms seem to go around her and draw her to me of their own
volition. At the same time my brain was trying to scream a denial; No, don't
do it! Something more primitive was telling my brain to go fuck itself. The
primitive side won, hands down.

I could just say we made love and let it go at that but it was much, much
more. Angela swung herself above me and pulled her T-shirt over her head
slowly, teasingly. She was wearing nothing but a wicked grin as she
straddled my chest. Her breasts were larger than I had expected and I was
mesmerised by them. They were slightly pendulous until she arched her back
like a cat and then her big, brown nipples pointed upwards. My hands moved
to them of their own accord and I cupped the tender weight of her in my
hands. She made that sexy, throaty, growling sound again as I touched her. I
had the overwhelming urge to suckle and, as I lifted my lips towards her,
she pulled me on to her, feeding her breast to me and making soothing noises
as I licked and sucked on her nipple. I felt a sensation akin to worship as
she swelled in my mouth and I flicked her lightly with my tongue.

My other hand kneaded her other breast. She made slow, undulating movements
and I switched my hand and mouth from perfect tip to perfect tip. She ground
herself against me and I could feel the wetness of her sex against my
stomach. The pale light of dawn creeping into the room gave her skin the
glow of alabaster but she was warm and soft; so warm, so soft. I reached
down and cupped her buttocks, pulling her upwards until I could bury my face
in the wild, soft tangle of her cunt. Her scent assailed my senses and I was
overcome with a deep longing as I tunnelled with my tongue into her sopping
core. She shivered, but it wasn't cold in that room. She was murmuring
half-heard endearments and her hips began a snaking rhythm as I licked and
nibbled at her. Her lips were quite pronounced and I sucked at each of them
in turn before thrusting my tongue into her once more. She was absolutely
dripping now and I found myself swallowing her offerings like a parched
desert traveller, coming unexpectedly upon an oasis.

She moaned and pushed against me, her hands were tangled in my hair and she
steered my efforts upwards to her clitoris. I needed no second bidding and
fastened onto that sweet button, sucking it gently between my lips and
rolling it with the tip of my tongue. Angela moaned and shuddered like a
soul in torment and she gripped me tighter, urgent and insistent. It seemed
that my entire existence was concentrated into that small area of contact
between tongue and clitoris. I felt disembodied, aware only of the
miraculous gem I held between my lips. She began to pant and suddenly
stiffened, grabbing my head and pulling my mouth against her and I felt a
series of thrills rippling through her. I flicked at her frantically,
squeezing her buttocks and trying to drag her even closer, if that were
possible. She gave a sharp cry and then another. I was licking her like a
man possessed and she shuddered again and then a third time.

"Ah no, stop please," she moaned at last, "It's too much, I cannot." But she
did and then collapsed over me, her head resting on the wall above the bed.
I brought her back down gently, covering her mound with gentle kisses and
stroking her back with my fingertips. At last she sighed and slid down my
body. She trapped my erection between her thighs and eased down further
until our eyes were level and my prick was stretched along the length of her
crotch and nestling between the silky mounds of her buttocks. She had a
slightly crazed look in her eyes, unfocussed and wondering. Then she smiled
and my heart lurched inside of me. I stared into her incredibly blue eyes. I
had the sensation of tumbling into their azure depths.

Angela started to clench her glutineal muscles and to exert a rhythmic
pressure on my cock. I was overwhelmed by her sheer presence; the pulsing
sensations she was now transmitting had me gasping for breath. Her smile
turned into a wicked grin and with a deft flick of her hips, she engulfed my
straining erection and I slid into her. Her eyes went round as we came
together and she arched up once more, offering her breasts to my avid mouth
and hands. She moved slowly, rocking her hips and giving me intermittent
squeezes as she tightened and relaxed her pelvic muscles. I tried to match
her rhythm but she wouldn't have it, urging me to stillness with a hand on
my chest and a gentle shake of the head. "My turn now."

I confess I just lay back and let her wash over me, as irresistible as the
tide. The heat in her loins was incredible and she seemed to be coming again
and again. I could feel a succession of feathery, rippling caresses and her
eyes were wild. Her mouth and breasts looked swollen, her nipples, bruised
and wanton. A faint pink flush suffused the marble of her pale skin. It was
the most erotic thing I have ever seen in my life. I couldn't contain myself
any longer and forced myself further into her, thrusting and driving
upwards, beyond control or constraint. My orgasm roared through every fibre
of my being, expanding, all consuming, utterly, mind-blowingly absolute. She
felt me falling into that delicious abyss and matched me, hurling herself
repeatedly down onto me with total abandon until we were both completely
spent. It was quite some time until either of us could move.

We lay there for a while, holding each other in perfect silence, wrapped in
a cocoon of languorous tranquillity, all of our own. For a short space,
there were no monsters waiting to devour us. There was just us; and a
new-discovered country called love.


To be continued...

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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