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From: "smilodon" <smilodonREMOVE@postmaster.co.uk>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Fri, 14 Feb 2003 21:54:30 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Walking the Dog Chapters 11, 12, and 13
Date: Fri, 14 Feb 2003 20:10:03 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Chapter 11


Angela woke me sometime later, sliding into the bed beside me and assuming
her usual position, head on my chest, one leg thrown over me. She nuzzled my
neck and whispered that she was very happy. Her father was alive and not a
criminal: she'd never believed that he could be. I grunted some sleepy reply
and lapsed back into unconsciousness. She wasn't having any of this and
proceeded to wake me again by the simple expedient of grabbing my cock and
starting to pump it lightly while lightly caressing my face with her lips
and tongue. Her eyes gleamed in the dim light and I could see the flash of
her teeth as she smiled down at me.

"Martin, I want to make love. There is madness all around us. I want you
inside me, to make me feel real again."

I have never been able to refuse a polite request from a beautiful woman. I
rolled her onto her back and kissed her gently. My fingers found her
opening, wet and ready and I slipped into her in one smooth movement.
Whether it was the situation or whether it was simply my love for her, I
couldn't say, but I was seized by the need. I slammed myself into her with
uncontrolled passion. Her legs went around my back and she bucked her hips
to match my frenzied pace. We didn't say a word; the only sound was our
rapid breathing. This was a different type of lovemaking. Up until this
moment we had been gentle, thoughtful lovers. This was animalistic; fucking
is the only word to describe it.

I could feel the wetness dripping out of her and soaking my pubic hair, my
balls and my thighs. Her head was thrown back, her eyes half shut and her
mouth was contorted into a feral rictus that parodied her normal sweet
smile. I felt rage boiling within me. Rage that we had been placed in this
nightmare, rage that we had not been allowed to just be lovers, anonymous,
happy, untroubled. The rage fed my passion and pounded away like a man
possessed. She was gasping now, getting close to orgasm. I pulled away and
turned her over, seizing her around the waist, I hauled her buttocks back
towards me and rammed myself into her again. Reaching under her, I grasped
her breasts and rubbed her nipples between fingers and thumb with one hand
and slid the other down to where we joined.

Angela was panting now and uttering a continuous low moaning sound that I
could somehow feel deep down in my balls. I rubbed her clitoris with the
knuckles of my right hand, pressing firmly. My other hand still alternated
between her breasts, squeezing and rolling the erect nipples. She came with
a huge shudder and her fists drummed on the bed as the climax gathered and
roiled. Her vaginal muscles went into spasm and she clamped down hard on my
thrusting, hammering prick.

A measure of sanity returned and I slowed my pace, giving her long slow
thrusts as she came down from her high. She was sobbing quietly, murmuring
endearments. My rage returned and I set off again, pounding and pumping
until my own orgasm shook me to the core and I poured all my anger, love and
fear into her. I cried out as I came that I loved her. She slammed back at
me, swivelling her hips and buttocks, milking me with her contractions.

Afterwards we lay side by side in the spoon position. I hugged her and
stroked her hair, telling her over and over again that she was wonderful,
glorious, that I loved her. She turned towards me and planted kisses all
over my face. "I love you, my Martin," she said. "I love you when you are
gentle and I love you when you are fierce, like a lion, just now. How did
you know that was what I wanted?" I had to admit that I hadn't known, that I
had been following my own driven needs. I tried to explain about the rage
and the love but she hushed me with a kiss. "It will be all right," she
said. "You will look after us. Always you keep me safe, yes?" I didn't reply
but uttered up a silent prayer - please, God, let it be so.

We slept then. No dark dreams troubled my rest and I awoke the next morning
feeling utterly refreshed and ready for anything. I woke Angela with a light
kiss and she smiled up at me, her hair a dark storm spread on the pillow and
love in her blue, blue eyes. We could hear the sounds of others up and about
in the kitchen so we showered quickly and dressed, to see what the day might
bring.

Angela's father was with Steve and Bill in the kitchen. Steve had obviously
got over being duped and the three of them were conversing in what I took to
be Russian. Bill looked up as we came in and said "Morning, all. Just been
chatting to the colonel here, miss. Swapping old soldiers' stories." He had
an engaging grin and twinkling eyes. They all looked completely at ease,
like old friends. It would be too easy to forget just how lethal these three
men could be.

Niall and Liam were out patrolling the perimeter that they had set up around
the cottage. It had been agreed that they would stay in the area while the
rest of us went to meet Rollo Yeates. Angela and her father went into
Cromer, taking Steve with them as a bodyguard, to photocopy the colonel's
papers at one of those little printing and stationery shops. I walked the
dogs with Bill as my guardian. He told me something of their history with
Liam and Niall.

Niall had been their company commander in 2 Para - the 2nd Battalion,
Parachute Regiment. Liam had commanded another company but they saw a lot of
him too. The twins were known in the regiment as 'the gruesome twosome.'
They were very well respected by both officers and men. Apparently, they had
a reputation for bringing their troops back alive. "Bags of low cunning,
those two," said Bill. After Desert Storm, Bill and Steve had volunteered
for the SAS and had undergone the gruelling selection process in the Brecon
Beacons. Niall had helped them prepare, training with them and encouraging
them to use their initiative whenever the situation allowed.

I had often wondered why neither Liam nor Niall had volunteered for Special
Forces and voiced this question aloud. Bill shrugged. "They would have
walked in if they'd bothered," he said. "I asked the Boss meself, once. He
said it wasn't for them; that they were regimental officers and preferred it
that way, but I don't think that was the reason. There was a rumour that
they objected to what the SAS was doing in the Six Counties. They're both
'left-footers' and Irish to boot, so it could be true, but I reckon it was
something else."

"What?" I asked. Bill grinned. "They wouldn't have been allowed to serve
together. Those two have always been joined at the hip. The SAS wouldn't
have let them both in at the same time. One wouldn't go without the other.
Sometimes it's like they're two halves of the same person, if you get my
meaning. Finishing each other's sentences, knowing exactly what the other is
going to do. In combat it was brilliant. I mean, imagine the advantages you
get when one company is supporting another and he knows exactly what his
brother will do when the wheels come off! I think it was Napoleon who said
'no plan survives contact with the enemy.' Well, the Boss and his brother
could make it up as they went along."

I sort of understood. I've never been a man of action but I thought I could
grasp what the chaos of the battlefield could do to pre-prepared plans. Just
as life itself can sometimes bowl you a bouncer; only in war, the
consequences could be a lot bloodier than mere inconvenience and wasted
effort.

Bill was trying to get Magic to act like a proper retriever and bring him
back the sticks he hurled into the sea. Magic, being the daft dog he is,
would rush off full of enthusiasm and return with the stick. As soon as Bill
went to pick it up, he'd dash off again and then lie down on the sand to
chew the offending stick to splinters. "He hasn't really got the hang of his
trade, has he?" Bill said with a chuckle. I laughed and told him that Magic
was not the brightest bulb in the box. "What about the other one?" Bill
asked. "Trotsky doesn't do retrieving," I said, "it's far beneath his
dignity." Bill tried anyway and was rewarded with one of Trotsky's 'are you
completely mad?' looks. He then stalked off in the opposite direction, a
disdainful tail held high. Bill laughed out loud. "I guess that told me!"

We made our way back to the cottage after an hour or so and were just in
time to meet the others on their return from Cromer. We loaded everyone into
the Volvo. Steve insisted on driving and Bill sat beside him. Angela sat in
the back flanked by the colonel and I. There wasn't much conversation as we
drove south through Norfolk and into neighbouring Suffolk. Angela's father
questioned me, via Angela, as to my job, my income and, to Angela's intense
embarrassment, my intentions towards his daughter. To this latter enquiry I
said simply that keeping her from harm was my immediate priority and he
beamed at me like a schoolboy.

Then he wanted to know if I spoke any other languages. I admitted to bad
French and passable Greek. I had learned Classical Greek at school and had
taken evening classes with a mad old Cypriot in demotic Greek. He spoke
Russian, Swedish and German so we had no common means of communicating. I
asked him why he did not speak English, as I knew many in the Russian
military learned the language of the 'enemy', particularly during the cold
war. He laughed and said that as an Estonian, he wasn't trusted not to
listen to the BBC or the Voice of America. He made it into a joke but there
was a bitter undertone to it. He then struck a desultory conversation in
Russian with Bill. I couldn't make out a single word so I sat in silence,
holding Angela's hand.

Felixstowe has an interesting history. At one time it was the base for many
of the great Flying Boats of the pre-war era. It was from here that the
Mayo-Mercury combination flew to South Africa in the 1930's. The Mayo was a
large Flying Boat that carried the Mercury, a fast four-engined seaplane,
piggyback. The Mercury would then be launched while airborne to continue the
journey. It was revolutionary at the time. Flying boats went out of fashion
with the coming of the jet engine and for a while, Felixstowe lapsed back
into a sleepy little fishing port on the Suffolk coast. Then came the great
Container revolution and the port became the busiest in the UK.

The modern Dock area is enormous and we had to drive around for a while and
ask several times until we found the right part of the terminus. I
recognised Rollo Yeates instantly even though I hadn't seen him for twenty
years. He was a tall, gangly individual with thin sandy hair and a pink
complexion. He obviously recognised me too, for he walked briskly towards
the car, hand outstretched, as soon as he saw me emerge. Rollo ushered us
into one of those temporary office huts that had a sign reading HM Customs &
Excise on the single door.

There were three men inside, one in the uniform of a senior Customs Officer,
the other two, like Rollo, in business suits. I made the introductions and
noticed Rollo did not reciprocate. Whoever his companions were, we didn't
need to know. I gave a quick summary of events to date. The others listened
in complete silence. Rollo nodded once briefly when I had finished and then
turned to Angela's father and began to question him closely in fluent
Russian. The Colonel handed over the photocopies of his information and
Rollo quickly scanned the top few sheets. His face went pale as he started
on the list of names. He shoved them into the hands of one of the other
suits and turned to study us.

"If this is true," he said, "and I have to say I believe it probably is,
then we are in a world of shit." That struck me as a particularly accurate
summary. The other three said nothing but I could see by their faces what
they were thinking. Either we were all mad or it was really true. The
customs man was the first to react. "We've isolated the bronze shipment. How
do we tell which of the ingots contains this supposed plutonium?" Rollo
asked the colonel and he replied that the manufacturer's mark was stamped
lengthways on the bars as opposed to horizontally. About a quarter of the
shipment was comprised of the false bars. He had had to spread the plutonium
thinly to allow for the lead sheathing and a thin skin of bronze over the
top. They were otherwise identical in size and weight.

The Customs officer said, "right, we'll take it from here" and departed
shouting rapid instructions into a walky-talky. We were left alone with
Rollo and the suits. One of the anonymous men, the one Rollo had given the
papers to, looked at us. His face was set and he held our eyes in turn with
an unblinking stare. "I don't suppose I have to tell you how much panic this
would cause if it were to become public knowledge," he said. "I am going to
have to ask you all to sign the Official Secrets Act, of course. This matter
is now classified. If any of you chooses to divulge this information to
anyone else, anyone at all, there will be the severest consequences. And I
do mean severe. Do I make myself plain?"

Bill gave him a grin. "Bollocks," he said. If this gets out, pal, the last
thing you'll be worrying about is the Official Secrets Act. Anyway, me and
Steve have signed the bloody thing so often we could recite it by heart. As
for the colonel here, what are you going to do him? He is a representative
of the Estonian government. Miss Angela's an Estonian as well and that only
leaves Mr Booth here." He turned to me, his eyes twinkling with enjoyment at
the suit's obvious discomfort. "Looks like you're bound for the Tower of
London, sir!" He winked broadly as he said it. Bill turned back to the two
men. His smile had gone and his tone was curt and dismissive. "We have come
to you with this information because we understand what a bloody mess this
all is, chum. You can take your Official bloody Secrets Act and your little
threats and shove 'em up your jacksie." He gave Steve a brief look and went
on. "Come on, folks, we're leaving."

Rollo Yeates put a hand up and caught my shoulder. "I know you will keep it
quiet, Martin," he said. I nodded. Rollo compressed his lips in
approximation of a smile that didn't touch his eyes. "We really owe you
people a debt if all this turns out to be true." I shook my head. "Rollo," I
said, "I just want my life back." He looked like he was about to say
something else but just shook his head. "I understand," he said.

Chapter 12

We drove back to Norfolk in silence, sunk in gloom. I'm not sure what it was
that affected us so; it was maybe a combination of things. The attitude of
officialdom certainly hadn't helped but we all had the feeling that somehow
nothing had been resolved to our satisfaction. We had told our story and
were now out of the loop. We had no idea whether the plutonium had been
found. We had even less of a clue as to how the authorities would now
proceed. We could only hope they would act rapidly to address the appalling
situation. The thing that bothered me was that there were at least a dozen
armed Chechens running about free as birds in England's green and pleasant
land. No one had seemed concerned in the slightest by that fact.

It was already full dark by the time we pulled up outside the cottage. Heavy
cloud cover obscured what moon there was so it was black as ink. There were
no lights showing in the windows and my heart sank. Supposing something had
happened to Liam and Niall while we were away? I got the dogs out of the
back of the car while Angela opened the door. Niall's voice rang out. "Get
inside, don't touch the lights and keep away from the windows!" Needless to
say we complied with alacrity.

Once inside, Niall told us what had been going on. "We were hit by about
twenty of the bastards at dusk," he said. "They're out there somewhere. I
think we winged a couple but these pop-guns aren't that accurate over about
twenty yards." Bill muttered something to Steve and they disappeared into
Angela's studio. When they came back they looked to have enough armament to
start a small war. They each carried some sort of sub-machine gun and Bill
had a rifle with a large nightsight fitted to its long barrelled frame.
Steve was carrying a holdall that contained more sub-machine guns and a load
of spare ammunition clips taped together in pairs. When one clip was empty,
they could simply turn it over to insert the other. They offered me a weapon
but I declined. "I think I'd be more dangerous to you than anyone else," I
said. The colonel took a weapon and proceeded to strip and reassemble it
with obvious expertise. "Good!" His smile was wolfish.

Angela and I went into the inner hall and sat down. There were no windows
and the thick stone walls of the cottage would protect us from any stray
bullets. I felt useless but knew it was best to leave it to the
professionals. I said as much to Angela and she gave me a weak smile. "You
are right, my Martin, and it is brave of you to admit it." I didn't feel
very brave at that moment, just very useless.

The odd thing about tension is that it can't last. The human brain can only
take so much, and then it begins to shut down. It's absolutely impossible to
stay scared witless and with every nerve stretched taut and humming with
dread for an extended period. After about an hour of squatting there in the
darkness with my arms around Angela, I began to yawn. The old soldiers
obviously knew a trick or two because every so often they would exchange
their positions. Fresh eyes always surveyed the scene outside. I guess it
kept them from staring for too long at the darkness and starting to imagine
things. What really struck me was that they seemed not to need words to
communicate. A look, a brief nod and everyone moved in unison. It was as
though they had been working together for years.

"Here they come!" It was a harsh whisper but I recognised Bill's voice.
"This side, too." That must have been Steve. The next thing the enclosed
space of the hall was filled with the harsh chatter of machinegun fire and
the stink of the explosive propellant. The flashes from the short bursts of
gunfire split the darkness and scarred their images onto my retinas. Angela
made a dive for me and I wrapped in her my arms, trying to shield her from
the awful reality with both my body and my love.

Over and above the cacophony within the house I occasionally caught the
fainter sound of fire being returned and glass smashing in the windows. Once
there was a shrill scream. Liam, Niall and the rest fought in complete
silence. I let Angela go and crawled forward. I had this overwhelming desire
to make myself useful. Shit-scared though I was, I grabbed the holdall and
slithered about the floor, passing out fresh ammunition clips. Magic was
whimpering in a corner of the parlour. He hates fireworks so God knows what
gunfire at close quarters was doing to him. There was a sudden almighty
BOOM!!! It felt like the house rocked on its foundations and glass cascaded
from all the windows at the back of the place. I was so stunned I was frozen
in mid-crawl. "Bastards have got a grenade launcher," I heard Liam say, or
it might have been Niall, I couldn't tell in the darkness.

Steve had the rifle fitted with the nightsight. "Got him," he said and the
flat crack of the rifle cut across the yammering of the sub-machine guns.
Steve fired again, once, twice in quick succession. "Got his mate, too. I
think they're pulling back." The firing died away as suddenly as it began. I
was suddenly conscious of the sound of my own breathing, harsh and rapid,
like I'd just run a marathon. My eyes smarted from the fumes and my head was
ringing. Angela's father said something to Bill in Russian. "Colonel says
they won't be back. Took too many casualties. They're mercenaries, no
commitment. Least ways, something like that." The colonel nodded his head
and I had the sneaking suspicion that the old bastard could speak English
after all.

We waited about half an hour with Steve surveying the surrounding area
through the nightsight. He shook his head. "Nothing moving, Boss."  Liam and
Niall slipped out of the front door and vanished into the darkness. The
three ex-soldiers waited with apparent total calm. I was beside myself with
nerves until they reappeared. Liam grinned and said, "Eight down for sure.
Another couple, possibly more, wounded. Blood trail withdrawing into the
dunes. We counted twenty earlier. I think we got a couple first time around.
Best guess is they are down to about eight or nine effectives. They won't
like those odds, not now they know our fire-power."

We heard the sound of approaching sirens in the distance. "Trust the Old
Bill, " said Steve, "Bloody late, as usual." The 'Old Bill' - a cockney
nickname for the police - duly arrived. Several white-faced young constables
and a couple of old hands in flak-jackets ringed the cottage. Niall called
out to them. "It's OK, gentlemen. The bad guys have already left. Do come
in!" There was a hasty consultation until someone who has seen too many cop
movies yelled for us to come out with our hands up. Dutifully, like any
law-abiding citizens, we trooped outside. We were bundled into the back of
assorted police cars and rushed off to Cromer Police Station, sirens still
wailing. They tried to split us up inside the station but we weren't having
any.

Niall stuck his face into that of the senior police officer and almost spat
out his angry words.

"Listen, sunshine, you have a bunch of Chechen nasties running all over your
manor. They attacked that cottage twice tonight. We defended ourselves.
There is something going down here that constitutes unbelievably serious
shit, well out of your league. I suggest you ring Lieutenant Colonel Rollo
Yeates of Army Intelligence immediately. He is aware of the situation and
will tell you as much as you need to know."

The policeman was not intimidated in the slightest. "Been listening to the
news, have we, sir?" The 'sir' was dripping with icy contempt. "Lieutenant
Colonel Yeates and two companions were killed by a car-bomb late this
afternoon. Special Branch thinks it was your countrymen, sir. Now what do
you to say to that?" His eyes flickered a little with surprise when he saw
the genuinely shocked looks on all our faces. I stepped forward.

"My name is Martin Booth and these gentlemen are in my employ. They have
been assisting me to protect this lady. We met with Rollo Yeates at
Felixstowe Docks around noon today. The senior Customs Officer for
Felixstowe and two other gentlemen were also present. As my friend here told
you, there is a gang of Chechens in the area who are trying to kill Miss
Sable and her father. Her father is a representative of the Estonian
Government who has come to this country bringing evidence of a terrorist
plan of almost inconceivable dimensions. We handed over the evidence to
Lieutenant Colonel Yeates and his companions earlier. We were also given
strict instructions not to discuss the matter with anyone.

"As you can see, Colonel Yeates's death has come as a great shock to us.
Even more so perhaps because these gentlemen - I indicated the twins - and I
were all at school with Rollo Yeates and knew him personally. I should also
point out to you that these same gentlemen served this country with
distinction in the Parachute Regiment and you have no right to cast any
slurs on their character simply because they are Irish. Such an attitude is
both inappropriate and offensive in the extreme.

"Be that as it may, you are wasting time. I would suggest that you contact
the security services as a matter of some urgency. We are all prepared to
render such assistance as we can to the proper authority. I would also
suggest that you send some armed police back to the cottage. You should find
the remains of some eight Chechen gunmen. In the cottage you will also find
two frightened dogs. I would be grateful if someone could see to them for me
while we remain here."

The policeman was visibly taken aback. "Just what the fuck is going on
here?" he said. I took the question to be rhetorical. At any rate, they
stopped trying to separate us and brought more chairs into the interview
room. A young constable in an ill-fitting blue uniform came in with a tray
of mugs of tea. Angela giggled. "How very British," she whispered in my ear.
"The world is going to Hell and your police make tea!" I grinned back at
her. "Don't knock it," I said, "It's a sovereign remedy for frayed nerves,
gunshot wounds, bombs, fire and flood. The country wouldn't function without
it." We all sat around and drank our tea, which turned out to be a
singularly pernicious brew and waited for the wheels of the State to turn.

We sat around for about three hours. The police left us alone but nobody was
in the mood for small talk. I could see Liam and Niall were starting to get
a bit antsy and did my best to calm them down. Eventually the door opened
again and two plain-clothes officers came in with the local senior officer.
The elder of the two newcomers introduced himself as Commander Swann of
Special Branch. We rehearsed the entire story for his benefit and he
listened attentively, sometimes interrupting to get clarification or to
check a detail here and there. When we'd finished he gave a low whistle.
"We'd heard rumours in the last year or so but nobody thought it was for
real," he said. "You say the Felixstowe Customs were dealing with this
shipment? He turned to his subordinate and told him to contact Felixstowe
immediately. The man gave a brief nod and hurried out.

When he returned a few minutes later, his face was grim. "Bad news, Guv," he
said. "It seems someone got to the shipment before Customs. They can verify
meeting with these people earlier today and they are quite convinced they're
genuine. Seems that Colonel Yeates gave them a clean bill of health." Liam
glared at the local policeman with an 'I told you so' sort of expression.
Swann thought for a moment or two. He came to a decision and turned to face
us all.

"The difficulty we have is that there is no corroborating evidence. We have
the gentleman's list, of course, but, with respect, he could have just
invented it. The local force found no bodies out at the cottage, either.
They did find what appears to be bloodstains and some spent cartridge cases
but that is all. Don't misunderstand me. I believe every word but we have no
concrete evidence."

There followed a hurried consultation between the three policemen. The local
man was arguing vehemently with Swann but eventually threw up his hands in a
gesture of resignation. He came across to us. "Against my better judgement,"
he said, "I'm going to let you go. I don't begin to understand what is going
on, and if I had my way, I'd keep you banged up safe until this is sorted.
The Commander here has other ideas, however, and he insists upon your
release. I will certainly require the pleasure of your company again so
kindly keep yourselves available. I am releasing you on police bail in your
own recognisance. That doesn't mean you're off the hook!"

The bastard wouldn't even have us driven back so we had to get a taxi. It
was well past midnight when we finally got in doors. A young policewoman was
playing with Trotsky and Magic in the parlour. "Are these your dogs, sir?"
she asked me. "They're really lovely." I thanked her for the dog-sitting and
she left with a smile.

Angela and I were too exhausted to do anything except cuddle. I fell asleep
with her cradled in my arms. I didn't sleep at all well that night and woke
several times in the darkness. Angela seemed blessed with the ability to
sleep anywhere at any time. It really was as if that simply having my arms
around her was enough to make her feel safe. I had learned that she had not
had many lovers; certainly not for a woman of thirty-five. I don't think it
was because of her early experiences with the Russian soldier. It was more
that she needed to feel the emotion of love before she could let her
obviously passionate nature come to the surface. For her, sex without love
was hollow and counterfeit somehow. I have always felt that love itself is
the best aphrodisiac so I certainly could relate to her feelings.

I don't class myself as any sort of stud but I reckon I know how to please a
woman. I had the very good fortune at the age of twenty to meet an older
woman. It was really quite strange, looking back. Jane was thirty-four,
divorced and had a couple of children. She had a lovely face but it was
hard, somehow. I think she had had a bad time in her marriage and there was
a hint of bitterness etched in the fine lines around her eyes and mouth. We
met when I walked into her father's pub. A friend of mine was having a
birthday party just down the road. It was one of those weekend-long affairs
and I had wandered off to the pub for a change of scenery. Then as now, I'm
not really a social animal so it was a relief to get away from the crowd.

The pub was relatively quiet and we started chatting. It turned out that she
was just there for the weekend and helping out behind the bar. I invited her
back to the party at closing time and we spent the night together in severe
discomfort in the back of my car. She asked me to visit her at her place a
week or two later. She'd sent the children away to friends for the weekend.
I drove over from the University to the town where she lived on Friday
afternoon. She didn't let me out of her bed until the following Sunday. I
mean it. I only got up to take a piss or use the shower. She fed me steak
and eggs in bed to keep my strength up. I wasn't complaining; it was every
young man's fantasy.

Jane had inverted nipples and she encouraged me to suck them out. She loved
having her nipples sucked and swore she could come from that stimulus alone.
She taught me how to eat her pussy, showed me the divine mysteries of the
clitoris. She helped me to control my own orgasm and helped me to learn how
to make sex last. Every lover I have ever had since Jane should club
together to raise a statue in her honour.

I suppose the overriding lesson I really learned from Jane was that sex can
have many moods. It can be funny, passionate, slow, gentle, raunchy or
what-have-you. There are no rules. We did it every way and in every possible
mood or combination of moods over the next few months. I didn't love her but
I was crazy about her. It was one of the few truly reciprocal relationships
that I have ever had. I got more sex than the rest of my friends put
together; she got an eager young man with bags of stamina who was willing to
be moulded. It was never going to last but it finished without any trauma or
regrets. We simply had each taken from the affair what we both needed. When
we stopped needing it, we drifted apart. There were no recriminations. I
think she found someone to be a father to her children and I soon put my new
expertise to good use with a fellow student.

I think word of my prowess must have spread throughout the female contingent
at the University. I never had to look too hard to find someone to share my
bed. It was largely mechanical but nonetheless fun for that. I wasn't
looking for true love and, in the most part, neither were the girls. There
were one or two sticky moments when some girl or other would confuse the
experience of her first orgasm with falling in love and once or twice it
happened the other way about. I would proclaim undying love and the object
of my affections would disappear rapidly over the horizon. Nobody got really
hurt; I reserved my first experience of that particular emotion for Steph.
What staggered me was how Angela had healed that wound so fast. I had
thought it terminal. Angela appeared in my life like balm from Gilead. OK, I
accept the circumstances were unusual and we were rather thrown together by
events. It didn't matter. I loved her and I was healed.

Chapter 13

The next morning began with a Council of War. The Chechens appeared to have
withdrawn from the game, at least for the present. What we were left with
was the colonel's papers. The theft of the bronze shipment weakened our
position a bit but we weren't looking for admissible evidence. That was a
job for the police. We were in the dark as to how they would now proceed.
The talk went round in circles and led nowhere. The colonel was the most
gloomy. He had pinned all his hopes on British Intelligence. Swann of
Special Branch hadn't been too encouraging. Elsewhere, the news was bleak.
The main story on the bulletins that morning was the car bomb that had
killed Rollo Yeates and his two companions, now identified as 'members of
the security services.' I thought the Chechens, assuming it was them, might
have done us a favour. Murdering three men to keep the story quiet and then
trying to kill us would surely prove something big was afoot.

According to the News stories, the police were pointing the finger at some
splinter group from the IRA that had 'claimed responsibility' as the saying
goes. Claimed responsibility - admitted their guilt, more like; but not on
this occasion. There was no Irish connection in the colonel's lists. This
seemed to be a piece of opportunistic publicity seeking on the part of some
murderous bunch of thugs. Nothing made any sense. We wondered aloud how the
opposition had cottoned onto the bronze shipment in the first place. We
didn't have any answers for that one either.

"We need to find that bronze," Liam said after a deal of further aimless
discussion. "If the Chechens took it, where would they take it? It's not
small, you couldn't just hide it in the boot of the car or something." The
colonel then let fly a volley of excited Estonian. Angela translated, "My
father says that they would have to have had help, need contacts here in
England. We should look at his list and see if we can see someone who might
fit." Of course, once she'd said it, it was obvious. The Chechens needed a
base of operations. Mickey Cornell couldn't have been their only helper in
the UK. He wouldn't have had the resources on his own. We needed to find
someone with access to storage facilities. Someone who was wealthy and had
underworld connections or, at very least, was known to be unscrupulous.

We pored over the colonel's lists and identified four or five who might fit
the bill. Two were Asian businessmen who had come to prominence in a scandal
a couple of years previously. They had been discovered to have links with
Palestinian terrorist organisations. They would certainly be up for
something like an Islamic Bomb but Niall thought they would be under
surveillance; they were too obvious, somehow. The colonel's notes showed
them as having helped finance the project but with no other involvement. We
decided to discount them for now. Another man was a known head of an
organised crime gang that operated out of South London. His involvement in
the affair was suspected rather than proven. There was a large question mark
against him because he was avowedly racist and unlikely to support Middle
Eastern causes. On the other hand, there was a lot of money involved, which
would certainly tempt him.

I had a thought. "Look," I said, "I'll bet Special Branch are doing the same
as us. I can't believe it would be anyone obvious. Let's have a look for the
least likely looking ones. They'd still have to be rich, of course, but
those on record as having the type of places that could be used are bound to
get a visit from the police. I think this calls for some lateral thinking."
We went back to the list and came up with three names. One was a senior
civil servant, one was an MP and the third was a newspaper tycoon of dubious
origins. All three had become involved, according to the notes, simply for
money. They were linked together and, more importantly, all had the
possibility of being linked to Michael Cornell. We needed to find out more
about them. Information in the public domain was one thing but we needed the
hidden stuff. I thought immediately of Bernie. If anyone would know how to
get the dirt on someone, Bernie would; and if he didn't personally then I
was willing to bet that he had the contacts.

I called him and explained what I wanted. "You're fishing in bloody deep
waters, Mr Booth," he told me. "I don't know about this Travers geezer
(Travers was the civil servant) but Charles Brownlock, MP, is a right nasty
bastard. And as for Renfrew, you've only got to read that rag he calls a
paper to know what he's about. Bloody thing ain't nothing but porn and
attacks on decent people. If you go after him and he finds out, your name
will be splashed all over that scandal sheet. Probably accuse you of
cheating the taxpayer and throw in some allegations about child-abuse or
drugs for good measure. You must remember what he did to Mr Young?" I did
remember but somehow it didn't matter what happened to my reputation. Three
weeks before it would have bothered me. It didn't any more. The situation
was too awful to let small things like personal reputation get in the way.
Anyway, if he was involved, he wouldn't be in any position to blacken
anybody's name for quite some time to come, if all went according to plan.

Bernie agreed that he would do some 'devilling.' He promised to get back to
me as soon as he had something but said I wasn't to hold my breath. I
reported the conversation back to the others and we agreed to let things
take their course. There was always the chance that Special Branch would
find the shipment before Bernie or his pals dug up anything interesting. All
we could do was 'hurry up and wait' - as the saying goes.

Angela, Bill and I walked the dogs. Bill was determined to get Magic to act
like a proper retriever but he had little luck. I told him Magic was simply
a disgrace to his breed. He was simply too daft to get the hang of it. He
treated the whole thing as a huge game. He'd fetch the stick Bill hurled far
out into the sea but as soon as Bill approached him to pick it up, Magic
would grab it again and be off down the beach. It was hilarious to watch.
Bill was getting more and more and frustrated. Just at the point we thought
Bill was ready to explode, Magic would drop the stick at his feet. He wanted
Bill to throw it again and start off another round of 'tease the human.'
Angela and I fell about laughing. The look of controlled fury on Bill's face
contrasted perfectly with Magic's daft grin. He has this habit of curling
his upper lip back to expose his teeth. It's supposed to be a sign of canine
intelligence but I reckon Magic was the exception that proved the rule.

It was a dull, dampish morning with curtains of rain sweeping across the
flat grey sea. All the rain seemed to be falling a mile or two offshore so
we were spared a soaking. Even so, the damp was penetrating and with it came
the cold. We were glad to be back in the warm and we shook out our coats and
settled ourselves by the fire. It was far too early to expect to hear from
Bernie and there wasn't much else we could do until we had the missing
information. Angela decided to start work on a new sculpture so I went along
to watch her. It is one thing hearing a process described but quite another
to see it put into action.

She started to make some sketches of Trotsky. She sketched quickly. She
never drew the whole dog, just portions of his anatomy; the curve of his
leg, the line of his shoulders and the like. Then she did his face and
captured him perfectly. One never thinks of sculptors as being draftsmen but
she had real talent. I found myself staring at Trotsky's face on the paper.
She had caught his expression perfectly, slightly disdainful but alert. The
artist's model wandered over as to have a look for himself. He put his head
on Angela's knee and gazed at her soulfully. After a minute or two of
ear-scratching he decided his beauty had been sufficiently recognised and
had received sufficient compliments for him to go back to his position away
from the fire. In all truth he had probably just got too hot but it is easy
to ascribe human reasoning to a dog like Trotsky, he's so damned bright.

Once Angela had made enough sketches, we went through to the studio and she
began to make the clay model that would eventually form the mould. She
worked quickly at first, throwing great handfuls of clay into position and
roughly shaping them with her hands. Eventually she had a Trotsky-sized mass
of wet clay that was only very roughly the shape of a dog. Now things slowed
as she shaped and scraped until the outline of a husky was unmistakeable.
Suddenly she said something in Estonian that didn't need translation and
crumpled the whole thing back into a lump of shapeless clay. She smiled at
me ruefully. "It was the wrong proportions."  She started over, moistening
the clay and her hands from a wooden tub of water she kept nearby for the
purpose.

It was obviously very physical work and soon beads of perspiration appeared
on her forehead and upper lip. She paused long enough to strip off her
sweater and continued. She was wearing a sleeveless sort of vest under the
sweater and now I could see the play of her muscles as she kneaded and
pounded at the clay. It was a fascinating sight and I was utterly enrapt.
Once more a recognisable husky appeared out of the clay. It was almost as if
there was a real dog inside, pushing his way out through the clinging earth.

Angela's face was a study in concentration. She didn't frown as some do. Her
expression was grave, her eyes focussed and lively. I felt I could almost
see the force flowing out of her hands into the model, bending the wet clay
to her will. At length she was satisfied. She had produced a replica of
Trotsky in size and outline. Now she began the delicate task of sculpting
the detail. She worked with what appeared to be a cross between a spatula
and a scalpel. Soon I could see Trotsky's face appearing under her hands. It
was perfect. She captured the flare of his nostrils and the way his blunt
muzzle sort of blended into the rest of his broad face. She worked faster;
the clay was beginning to dry. I knew this was the critical time.

We had been in the studio for nearly six hours without exchanging more than
a handful of words. The time had flown by. I had risen only once to turn on
the lights as dusk fell. I heard the others making dinner but felt no hunger
myself. I was utterly absorbed watching the woman I loved doing the thing
she was created for. At long last she stood back and plunged her hands in
the water butt to wash away the clay. Her face was streaked in sweat and her
arms must have been aching like the devil but she showed no signs of
slacking. "Now we must fire the model," she said and strode across to the
electric kiln to bring it up to the required temperature.

Her skin was glowing and her eyes danced with a bright and feverish light.
She was exalted, lit by the creative fire within. Strangely, I didn't feel
excluded. I felt a part of something wonderful and, to me, utterly
mysterious. I had watched some ancient esoteric rite, had seen the goddess
summoned and the sacrifice performed. It was, in short, like magic. Angela
stalked the model she had made. She stared from all angles, moving closer
once or twice to administer the finest of finishing touches. At last she
pronounced herself satisfied and asked me to assist in moving the model on
its specially designed little trolley into the kiln. "Don't touch it," she
warned me, "push it by the base. Slowly, slowly!"

We eased the model into the kiln and she gently shut the door. "Even the
draft from that door can disturb it," she said. The firing was to be slow at
a low temperature. If the heat was too fierce, we ran the risk that the clay
would shatter or be too brittle. "Now we wait." Angela smiled at me and came
to rest her head against my chest. I could feel the tension in her back and
shoulders so I made her sit in the chair from where I had watched her and
began to massage her. Her singlet was soaked in perspiration and she
stripped it off. I used my fingers to prod and pummel the knotted muscles
and watched her visibly begin to unwind. Her fair skin was smooth and silky
to the touch.

She got up once to dim the lights and then slid back into the chair. "Where
were we?"  She murmured dreamily and looked back at me, her eyes soft now,
the fierce light dimmed to a residual glow. The depth of my feeling for her
consumed me, could there ever have been a more wonderful creature? I moved
around the chair and encouraged her gently to lie back. I began to work on
her shoulders at the front and then switched my attention to the corded
muscles of her stomach. It was easy to understand now how she remained so
firm and toned. The effort expended had been more than Steph could have
managed in a month of workouts. "My legs, also, Martin, please, " she said
and obliged by lifting her hips so I could ease off her jeans. I went and
locked the studio door and returned to start work on her in earnest.

I started at her feet, manipulating each of her toes and massaging the soft
balls of flesh beneath each one in turn. She sighed dreamily as I squeezed
the insteps of her feet and stroked my thumbs over the soles of her feet.
Then I took each leg in turn. I rubbed her calf muscles and kneaded my hands
deep into their softness. She was utterly relaxed now, looking back at me
with hooded eyes. When my hands reached her thighs, her legs fell open and I
worked my way into the soft tissue of her inner thighs. She shifted her
bottom forwards in the chair and grinned at me. I leaned up to kiss her
lightly on the nose. "Don't stop now," she said.

I used a lighter touch to stroke her thighs and gently rubbed the backs of
her legs, lifting each one in turn. I was conscious now of the musky scent
of her body. Little tufts of pubic hair were showing each side of the crotch
of her panties and I made a show of tucking them back in, not quite but
almost, touching her sex in the process. We were both now well aware of the
game and were playing it with all our might. Her eyes had a misty cast now
and a languorous smile played about her full lips; she moistened them with a
flick of her tongue and I felt my mouth go dry. I stroked her hips, easing
her panties down just a fraction so her pubes just showed above the
waistband. Then I worked on her abdominal muscles, gently pressing my thumbs
into her yielding flesh. I leaned forwards and flicked my tongue into the
sweet hollow of her bellybutton. She sighed deeply and stroked my hair as I
trailed kisses over her stomach and chest, pulling up short of her swelling
breasts that seemed to be engaged in battle with the straining fabric of her
bra.

Skipping over her bra, I kissed the swelling upper slopes of her breasts and
nibbled softly at her neck. I climbed her body like a vine, nuzzled her ears
and then out mouths sought it each other and we kissed slowly and deeply,
our tongues wrestling and competing. I slipped my hands behind her and,
after a brief fumble, unhooked her bra. She eased it off with a shrugging
motion. Her nipples stood out proudly. I wet my finger and circled it round
and round her areola. Her breasts seem to swell visibly under my hands and
she arched her back to offer more of them to my touch. Still I stayed away
from her nipples and placed a line of silken kisses on the underside of each
breast. Each time I would approach her nipples but shy away at the last
minute, giving the barest flick with the tip of my tongue.

Her skin had the tangy taste of salt and I covered every exposed inch with
little licks and kisses. I could tell I was really getting to her and her
hips began a slow undulating dance of their own. I made a sudden grab then
and captured both her breasts in my two hands, stroking my thumbs over the
rock-hard tips and she gasped. I caught her breast in my mouth and sucked in
as much as I could cram into my eager mouth, flicking her nipple with rapid
strokes of my tongue. At the same time I pushed her panties to one side and
slipped first one and then two fingers into her wetness. She bucked against
my hand and I rotated it back and forth against the swollen nub of her clit.
All the while I was sucking on one breast and cupping the other in my free
hand. She started to come and I dived between her legs to suck on her
clitoris. This drove her over the top and she grabbed my head, pulling my
face hard into the junction of her thighs.

She seemed to be coming non-stop. Her hips were rearing and gyrating
furiously and her fingers tore at my hair so hard it made it my eyes water.
At length, she pushed me away. "No more, please, I can't stand any more, my
Martin," Her skin was flushed and there were bright pink patches at her
throat and on her cheeks. Her eyes were wild and unfocussed and her hair was
matted with a fresh batch of perspiration. I don't think I have ever felt so
pleased with myself. There is something totally marvellous about pleasing
one's lover to the point of delirium. I lay across her body as she came
down, tracing kisses up and down her ribcage until she giggled. "Ah, that
was wonderful," she said. "Now it is my turn to drive you mad!" I shook my
head. I felt no desire at all for myself just then. I had had my
satisfaction from hers. "Later, my love," I told her, "That was enough for
me just now." And if it hadn't been, the beautiful smile she gave me then
was more than enough for any man.


To be continued...

-- 
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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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