The Goddess Of Fortune Page 8

  Hoffmann relaxed and laughed, “You fucking lucky dog, she looked like a Hollywood movie star. You have to tell me your secrets.”

  Actually, there was no time to tell any secrets as Jones was transferred two weeks later to Bataan in the Philippines.

  “You will like it,” said his CO, “It’s just like Mississippi weather.”

  The rust-streaked truck returned to the Germany embassy. The rear of the truck opened and the men emerged.

  “Get the film developed,” Schneider said, somewhat needlessly.

  The camera operator nodded.

  After her “lucky escape,” Louise walked to the front of the Willard and entered, slowly walking to the bar she knew so well. She could feel some of Jones’s milk starting to run down the inside of upper thigh; she always loved this feeling. It made her feel so slutty and so alive. She made her way to the bar and sat down, easily crossing her now well-lubricated legs.

  “A glass of champagne, please Peter.”

  “Sure thing, Louise,” said the smiling barman who was thrilled to be on first names with a woman like Louise.

  “Now Peter, there is no need to tell me again the stories of President Grant sitting here at the bar and in the lobby, and how the vernacular “lobbyist” was coined by Grant’s visitations here,” she frowned in mock disapproval.

  Peter looked like a little boy who had been discovered wetting his bed.

  “Oh, Peter, don’t look like that. They are wonderful stories, and I am sure they make a lot of luck for you with the officers’ wives and mistresses, but remember you told me them all before.”

  At this moment an Army colonel sauntered over to the bar, “Hey, barman, gimme two fingers of Jack, and give this lady a drink while you’re at it.”

  No “please,” just a command from God to a peon.

  “So, honey, you here on your own or what?”

  “No, colonel, I’m with someone, but thank you for asking.” The quiet sarcasm was missed by God.

  “Whoa, that’s too bad honey, ‘cos I could show you a real good time.

  “Say, barman, where are the phone booths in this dump; I got to get me some action for tonight?”

  Peter politely pointed and God left.

  Louise paid for her drink, giving Peter a large tip.

  “See you later, Louise.”

  Louise left and had the doorman hail her a cab to the small bookstore called Boyles, which was down the street from the embassy. Louise wasn’t sure if it was habit or just tradecraft that made her do this, but she always walked the wrong way for a minute and then suddenly turned looking for any tense missteps.

  Like all men experienced with women, Schneider had trimmed his fingernails so there was no nail extending at all on any finger—“nothing to irritate or hurt any female delicacies,” he smiled, thinking to himself. He also checked his chin and lips—not the slightest sign of stubble; Louise did so love his mouth while lying on his desk, legs wide, wide apart. Sometimes she would let her legs dangle, while other times she would hug her knees, all depending on her mood.

  In the back of the taxi, Louise had mopped up the excesses of Jones that had been slowly dribbling down her leg. It was one thing to excite Schneider, it was another thing to be sloppy for her “second.”

  Schneider was smoking a cigar when Louise entered. By his relaxed demeanor, it was clear the mission was a complete success. Schneider rose and bowed slightly, then quietly applauded, “Perfect. You were perfect, my dear.”

  “Some cognac to celebrate?”

  She nodded.

  Louise loved to have sex when she was drunk—it seemed to heighten the pleasure.

  For almost half an hour, Schneider debriefed Louise. It was slow and pleasant and each knew the other wanted sex and so each teased the other, very slowly.

  “He was a 30-seconder, as you predicted.”

  Schneider remarked he was not surprised.

  “So the material is good?”

  “No, it is not.”

  Louise frowned for a second until Schneider raised his hand, like a policeman stopping a car while directing traffic.

  “No, the material is not good. The material will change the path of world history in a significant way.”

  Louise felt her nipples tingle, she was starting to get aroused again. Her skin was alive.

  Schneider continued, “What the President of the United States reviewed today is a plan for the Americans to attack the British Empire, starting with an undeclared attack on Canada.”

  Louise’s mouth sagged opened and she stared at Schneider.

  “That can’t be true—the Americans are allies of the British.”

  “At the moment, but the gods have an amusing sense of humor. Remember what the Britisher Palmerston said, ‘Nations have no permanent friends or allies, they only have permanent interests.’ ”

  They had been sitting on the overstuffed burgundy leather club couch, Louise sitting with her legs crossed. With Schneider’s pronouncement, she uncrossed her legs without thinking and moved forward on the seat. She was lubricating intensely.

  “Oh my God, that is the most exciting thing I have ever heard. I hope you are not going to tease me too much longer.”

  Then she suddenly said, “So we will announce this to the world now, right?”

  “Well that would be the best way to expose and destroy our source. Would that be a good idea?”

  Schneider explained that with material this powerful, it was essential that nothing leak.

  “This is like fine wine, we need let it age a little. In a month or two, and after a few more Locked Wrists using people other than our source to the White House, then we will be safe to use it. This material will not go bad with age.”

  Changing the topic to what she was most interested in, she simply said, “Fuck me now, please.”

  Schneider realized Louise had understood.

  Louise was a beautiful young woman, but Schneider’s experience was such that he felt not a twinge of nervousness, the opposite of young Jones.

  He kissed her on the lips and she forced her tongue into his mouth. “The assignment has done all the preparatory work for me,” Schneider thought.

  Louise grabbed his trousers and unzipped them. She had her elegant hand around his hardness and was squeezing and took her thumb and rubbed it over the tip. She was pleased to feel that oily wetness that always excited her. She had opened her legs and his hand was teasing the now wet area of her upper thigh.

  “Oh for God’s sake, stop teasing me, put it in me, now. I want to feel it in me now. All the way.”

  Schneider rose and took her to his desk. He had already moved the ink well and blotter, so the area was clear. She lay on her back with a sigh of anticipation and opened her legs to their fullest extent. Schneider slid inside; she was astoundingly wet, not just from Jones but also from her own body.

  “God. Jesus that. Oh yes, that. I want that. All the way. Put it in all the way. I want it all in. Deep. Dump it all in me now.”

  He could already feel the small contractions starting, and her juices were running down her legs and bottom to the desk. He slipped his left hand under her and lifted her a little. Her contractions were rapidly increasing in both strength and frequency. She was squeezing her nipples though her blouse. She was fast approaching climax. Schneider was pumping so hard that the front of their pelvic bones were hitting at each thrust. “About 20 seconds,” he thought. At this stage, when she was too far gone to complain, Schneider gently but insistently slid his index finger into her back door.

  Her eyes widened, her mouth opened for a second and no sound came, then, “Oh my God. Yes. Fuck me. Fuck me.”

  She closed her eyes and was moaning louder and louder.

  Her head was wildly moving side to side. When his finger was all the way in, she stopped moving, and got up on her elbows on the desk. She opened her eyes wide and looked at him, a look of shock on her face.

  “A big one,” is all she said.

/>   Then she started to climax. While she was contracting, he worked his finger backwards and forward; as the contractions started to weaken, he moved the tip of his finger more and more. He could feel himself through the walls of her body. As the tip of his finger moved more and more, her weakening contractions started again to strengthen. He continued this for two minutes.

  Finally, he thought he should stop. He gently withdrew his finger and with his other hand stroked her brow.

  “You’re safe, just relax, honey. Let me get you some water.”

  Louise’s body was uncontrollably twitching on the desk, her legs were quivering. She had her hands to her mouth. It was as if she was crying, with light, defenseless pants.

  “Just stay here,” he whispered.

  Quickly he slipped in to the small bathroom at the corner of his office. He washed his hands and poured two glasses of water and dampened a hand towel with warm water.

  Returning, he found her a little less distraught.

  After a moment, she opened her eyes.

  “What was that?”

  “Hmm, little different to the American Jones?”

  Her breathing returned to normal, and she put her hand to her forehead.

  “I have never felt like that before. What in God’s name was that?”

  Of course, a gentleman like Schneider was never going to explain to a lady the explicit details of what he sometimes referred to as “the plumbing.” Such details would destroy the romance; years ago while serving in a Freikorps, he had been given some photos—“saucy,” as he called them—of French ladies. Some of these were so explicit they seemed to belong in a medical doctor’s text book. How, he asked himself, could such photographs be considered erotic when they removed all the mystery.

  Actually, Schneider had kept the photographs as a test; he would show them to candidates for his department with the threadbare excuse that he had them thrust upon him by a soldier, and “what do you think of these?” The answers always fell into one of three categories: “do you have any more” (instant rejection), or—at the other end of the spectrum—“these are horrible” (instant rejection), or “interesting, but frankly, I find these images destructive of romance and more suitable for education of medical students” (possible). His recently-hired aide, Herman Jäger, had expressed the third opinion.

  It was with Jäger over brandy one evening that the conversation had moved to the female “plumbing” and Schneider had for some reason explained the technique.

  “Jäger, you see, in every woman’s backdoor there is a spot, about this far in,” he held up and extended his index finger.

  “And this special spot when stimulated correctly increases the strength and the duration of her climax. Done properly—and it does take a lot of practice—a woman’s climax can be extended to one minute, or even two full minutes, or even longer.”

  From Jäger’s face, it was clear this was new to Jäger, and he frankly said, “Herr Schneider, I did not know that. I will try this at the next opportunity.”

  Schneider quickly offered some warnings,

  “Jäger, ensure your finger nails are all trimmed right down to the quick. Also do not start this until the lady’s motor is already running and warned up. Down cold, as it were—too early—the effects can sometimes be of revulsion. Use her nipples as a judge. Of course, women’s nipples vary tremendously in shape and size, but the common point of observation is the change in the size of the nipples. I’ve known some women whose nipples in normal life are actually dimples, but always—always—when aroused the little buggers come out of their hiding places to stand up over-sized to proudly take their place in the world.”

  Jäger laughed at this last comment, and nodded his head, as he too had observed the same phenomenon. Schneider thought Jäger too young to be told of the time in Peking when Schneider entertained a Chinese lady, whose nipples grew to two centimeters in length and moved like worms; Schneider was so dumbstruck at this that he quickly and politely moved to à chien—those two worms were very off putting.

  That evening, after Louise had leisurely bathed and pampered herself, Schneider took her to the main dining room at the Willard, in part because the food was excellent, and in part to let Louise relive the afternoon’s adventure.

  The waiters had cleared the table and the restaurant was mostly empty because of the upcoming national holiday.

  “You see my dear, women are delicate flowers that need to be treated gently and carefully, else the petals be damaged. But inside all women there sleeps a tigress, and that tigress can be awoken, and when aroused she is a wild animal. What happened in my office, is I simply awoke your tigress. And once unleashed your tigress can roam for a very long time.”

  “I have never experienced anything like that before. How long was mine—I was so crazy I lost track of time?”

  Schneider replied, “A little over two minutes.”

  “I thought I was going to die.”

  “Yes, I know; that is why I stopped.”

  “You mean it could have been longer?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Louise sighed.

  “That is why you slept on the couch for an hour. Your body was in shock and needed time to recover.”

  Louise said nothing, lost in thought.

  “How can I thank you?”

  “Thank me? Why the pleasure was all mine,” Schneider smiled.

  “Schneider, it’s a curious thing, but the more men I have the more men I want. Is that the same with you with women?”

  “Yes, but Louise you will find that it becomes addictive. But it’s a nice and entertaining addiction. And you are in the happy position of it being part of your job.”

  Louise smiled slightly.

  “You know I could do it again now, I am getting excited. Is that unhealthy?”

  “No, it is completely normal. What I suggest is you go to the bar; I will take you there and then leave. When the detritus at the bar see me leave, they will swoop on you like eagles on a lost lamb.”

  As promised, after dinner, Schneider took Louise to the bar of the Willard, but not before Louise had briefly adjourned to the ladies’ room to, as she said, “remove one unwanted undergarment.” So freed, she whispered her thanks to Schneider, and also that she was starting to “get wet there again.”

  “I must be crazy.”

  Schneider shook his head, “The more you get, the more you want. That is all. You are not crazy. You are simply healthy.”

  Perhaps because of the holiday, in contrast to the restaurant, the bar was unusually crowded for a Wednesday night. Schneider assumed some were bachelors with nowhere to go, as well as some married officers who were escaping the boredom and tedium of suburban home life for a few hours. He ordered champagne for both of them. Peter was still on duty and smiled at Louise who returned his smile with a genuine one of her own.

  After a decent interval, Schneider asked for his hat. Kissing her on the cheek, he whispered, “I will want a full report tomorrow.” Louise simply smiled.

  As he had predicted, even before he had reached the front door, a red-faced and slightly drunk officer, and without being invited, sat down next to her.

  “Say, what’s the idea of your boyfriend leaving you alone in a place like this with all us wolves?” he laughed.

  Louise had the ability to force a smile that was indistinguishable from her genuine ones that she gave to Peter and Schneider.

  “Oh, he’s not my boyfriend, he’s my boss,” she answered, with just a tiny hint of breathlessness, to create the illusion of “my, your army uniform sweeps me off my feet.”

  “Your boss, eh; then he should really know better. He should be protecting his most valuable troops. That’s what we officers always have to do. So what do you do? As you can see I am protecting the country against our enemies, whoever they are,” he laughed.

  “Well, I am a reporter for a Chicago business newspaper,” she said.

  “That’s interesting,” he lied without
bothering to try to hide his lack of interest.

  Schneider had explained to Louise that reporters were the perfect cover, as their job was to ask questions, and that a business reporter was the best of all, as questions about millions of gallons of sulphuric acid, or number of trains to San Francisco, or aircraft production, all seemed like reasonable questions that a hard-working business reporter would ask.

  Louise quickly finished her drink, and the officer—he was a quartermaster as it turned out—snapped his fingers like a little Caesar and ordered her another without her asking.

  Then she started her slow little pantomime routine she had honed with Schneider. First came the hair toss; next was running her hand through her hair—“even the most stupid man should pick up this signal of a woman in high heat,” Schneider had explained; then the brief gaze into the eyes—“only for half a second, otherwise he will think you are completely drunk, or a whore.”

  Then, the most important of all: “Then put your hand on his knee. Just tell him you are getting a little drunk.”

  Truth be told, Louise was getting a little drunk and loved the feeling of teasing this nonentity.

  The nonentity—like most men—was deluding himself that his wit, charm, and personality were winning over Louise. And Louise’s slow encouragement was only amplifying this delusion. In reality, he had no wit, no charm, and very little in the way of personality, but he did have a bulging briefcase at this feet which he would periodically and ostentatiously move.

  “I am writing a piece for the paper on rubber production in Ohio; you know anything about that?”

  Suddenly he was nervous, “You know, honey, we should not talk shop here.”

  “OK, if you don’t know, then you don’t know.”

  He moistened his lips, and said sotto voce, “Well, what’s in it for me?”

  Louise said nothing but answered by lightly grazing his crotch with her hand.

  “I want all your milk on my face. All of it.”

  She could see he was in two minds, but as expected, lust won.

  “Room 1511.”

  He left carrying his bulging briefcase.