Chapter 5
George Buchanan had a barely controlled mop of tightly curled red hair, a pair of blue eyes that could strike terror into the hearts of his employees, and a temper. Manager of Vespa Copper, largest American company in Espania, he was also accustomed to getting his way. Communist attempts to organize and anger his employees had resulted in his leaving his coat in his office and entering the arena himself. Attempts to intimidate him had brought sneering, snarling replies. Threats against his family had finally forced him to fire the ringleaders and call both the Espanian interior minister and the United States ambassador.
Today he did not call; he came to Ambassador C. David Brooks in person, and his eyes were blazing. David's soft-voiced attempts to remind Buchanan of international politics had failed to quiet the man-which David could understand.
"They were locals, Mister Ambassador!" George Buchanan raged, as he'd been raging for the past fifteen minutes. "God dammit, three lousy dirty Espanians grabbed my sweet virginal daughter and RAPED her! What the shit is the use of having a big powerful government like ours, and an ambassador here, if you can't protect American nationals in Espania- and do something about it when they're abused!"
"Mister Buchanan, the situation here is such that "
Buchanan shot to his feet. "You and I both know those bastards were in the pay of the communists, Brooks! They've been creating trouble for over a year now and I just canned the ringleaders. You and I also know there's one man in Espania who can control them. Now are you going to Raul Herrera, or am I?"
David gazed at the red-faced man. Christ, his daughter! The dirty bastards! He'd been pussyfooting long enough!
"Mister Buchanan, this is horrible and I promise you I am going to chew some asses and get some action. Right now we can't prove it was Raul Herrera . . . but . . . will you give me forty-eight hours?"
Buchanan stood there and stared at him, his flushed face working. Then he vouchsafed the ambassador a single brief nod. "Forty-eight hours," he said, looking pointedly at his watch. And he left.
David called Premier Avila and accomplished the usual: nothing. It was obvious Avila had a genuine fear of Herrera. After he'd put down the phone, David sat there drumming his fingertips. He'd have loved to call the Soviet ambassador, Yuri Babaikov, and tell him he'd damned well stop backing Herrera. But David didn't dare. A United States ambassador didn't have the power to threaten a Russian one, and for excellent reasons.
The ringing of the phone startled him. So did the identity of the caller: Raul Herrera. So did Herrera's words. The Espanian communist did not refer at all to last night's horrible and fantastically high-handed gang-bang of Amy Buchanan.. No. But it was too obvious that he had indeed been behind it. He was calling to suggest that he and David get together to discuss "working something out" in the "unfortunate attitude" of . .. Vespa Copper, Buchanan's firm!
David chewed him, gently and then angrily. At last he told Herrera he was going to hang up.
"I would not advise you to hang up on me, Mister Ambassador!" Herrera snapped. David hung up.
He picked up the phone to call Washington. It was time-no, past time to get permission to use the information he had on Raul Herrera. He frowned. It was an ugly thought, but . . . he decided against calling. How could he be sure Herrera didn't have a tap on his phone, or operators in his pay? Instead, David called the airport and made a reservation. He'd fly to Washington, get a fast hearing, and fly back as fast as he could swing it. The plane would leave at six A.M.
He got through the day as best he could. It was hard not to think about Amy Buchanan.
He and the Princess had one of their late, antiseptic private dinners, and afterward he told her he was flying home.
Her face came alive. "Oh, good! It'll be good to see some people up there!"
"Darling . . . don't forget the dinner we've got scheduled for Friday night. It's Annik Barreau's birthday." Annik Barreau, fat and gossipy, was the wife of the French ambassador. It was one of those things they were doing because it was part of the job. "Anyhow . . ." And he told her why he was going, and that it would be a fast and brief trip.
Claudine sighed and her lovely, fair face darkened. But she only nodded. She never said anything about the distasteful necessities of the job. She, after all, had wanted it very much and both she and her grandfather had put on the pressure, two years ago, when David had considered turning it down.
Playing Dutiful Wife, she helped him pack, doublechecked the travel list with him, and went into the bathroom to bathe.
It's her wifely duty, David thought bitterly, to get all clean and perfumed and "have sex" with her husband before he departs.
But his desire rose when she emerged from the bathroom, a regal and very desirable vision in flowing white net. One thing about balling this undemonstrative woman (balling, not balling with), she just couldn't let go. He knew he was the envy of every man in Espania, fully half those in Washington and Arlington-the Attenborough home-and probably a third of the males of the United States: all those who had seen her picture.
Too, he knew some things they didn't. The firm jutting bulge of her vulva, the pale pink slit showing so clearly and sexily through the sparse blond wisps of her silky pubic hair. The tensile strength and girlish firmness of her thighs and calves. The beauty of her hair when it was freed, a pale cloak like a moving flash of sunlight. The drum-taut plane of her belly and its shallow, almost perfectly round navel and the way it pulsated so slowly and gently with her breathing. The shocking jut and tight muscularity of her round buttocks-which she girdled under her clothing, so as not to flash that shapely, sexy ass at the world, even clothed. And the strange moons of her breasts, which were large and with little sag, and yet that thrust outward so little. Because of that odd-ness about them, she also prevented the world from knowing what she was: a woman with large, sexy tits, quivering bowl shapes of silken flesh that were very restless when naked.
Not that David often saw them naked. She had slept with him before their marriage because that was the thing to do. In the dark.
The farthest they had progressed beyond that, now, was that she agreed to leaving the light on in the bathroom. With the door not quite closed.
Now, as he took her nylon-enveloped loveliness in his arms and kissed her, her hands rested lightly on his shoulders. She allowed him to draw her willowy body as close as he liked, but she did not press to him.
He had tried going down on her, once. She had stiffened up and gasped in shock, and she'd been withdrawn for days. Both cunnilungus and fellatio, she had let him know, were perversions. And she had used those fancy words for cunt-lapping and cock-sucking.
"You'd have to force me to indulge in such perversions, David!"
He had thought about those words, more than once. It was an exciting prospect. But he wasn't that sort of man-and she wasn't the sort of woman that anyone made do anything. So he got his fiery sex away from home, and though she never mentioned it, he was sure Claudine knew about Morgana Tovares.
She was the perfect nineteenth-century wife. She was a good and dutiful woman to her husband. And she overlooked the fact that his male biology made him want to do things that he did with a mistress. That did not concern her, or him, really. That was biology. That was a man for you.
With the room not quite dark, Claudine and David Brooks, mates but not mates, lovemakers but not lovers, undressed on opposite sides of the big old-fashioned bed. Then they slid onto the sheets.
She lay on her back. Her sighs and little twitches let him know that she was aware of his attentions to the large round domes of her breasts.
He cupped those soft and firm breasts in his hands, crowding them together in the center of her chest, fondling and squeezing and lifting them and their pale pink, softly rumpled crests to his mouth. He tongued them, sucked them, let her nipples feel the warmth of his tongue and the gentle grip of his lip-shielded teeth.
She sighed and twitched. Her hand rubbed his arm.
Her nipples swelled up fat and sassy in swift response to the loving pressure and suction. He smiled, gently nibbling at one jutting pink erection. He loved her tits, loved her nipples, loved the way they erected so readily and remained swollen and tumid for so long. It was one response, by God, that he could damned well get from the Princess, the ... ice princess.
"I love your breasts," he murmured, for a woman like Claudirte Attenborough Brooks had breasts, not tits.
"I'm so glad," she purred, patting his head.
Arf, he thought, and began stroking her thighs with one hand. God, 0 dear God, the sleek firm smoothness of those thighs, the absolute silken texture of her ungenerous amount of pubic hair, the nuts-tightening sexiness of her tits in his hands and mouth and under his tongue!
"Umm. Come in me," she said softly. She always did. She had discovered he liked her saying that, long ago. By now he wished she'd just once vary the pattern. ... He slid his fingers up the silky little slit between the delicately tinted lips of her cunt. (Her vulva, she said. Her vulva and his penis. She referred to it, occasionally.)
He couldn't help it. As always, he was extremely aroused and wanted her desperately. And he would again, despite her passivity, despite Morgana's fire. He couldn't help it; this was the woman he loved. He really did.
He tickled between the delicate folds of her love lips.
She jerked. "No! You know I can't stand that! Come in me!"
So he went into her. With or without any fervor or ecstasy on her part, he would slake his sexual thirst at the wellspring of her pussy.
He peeled open her legs, which always parted readily, but never of her own accord. His hands opened her silky, cushioning cunt bulge to the pushing, probing cock so hungry for its hot clutch.
She grunted and shuddered when he shoved it into the soft, fleshy target of her pussy. Christ but it was good, so slick and warm and pressed firmly all around his broad, bulging cock.
All the way inside, he stretched over her with his elbows supporting his body. He lay there rocking away in the cradle of her hips, widening the swollen lips of that elastic pocket of flesh.
He began ramming in and out, penetrating all the way in long, steady and rhythmic strokes that fucked her on the upmost length of his hard-throbbing cock until his pubic hairs abraded the soft protective folds of her cunt.
She moaned and sighed. Her hands moved restlessly over him. Her palms were dry and her fingers cool.
His body rose onto his palms, suspended above her. His toes dug in. He thrust hard into her, deep up inside her moist fleshy inner walls.
His butt tightened and his hips jerked and pushed his long shaft of meaty cock into her with a constant wet, soppy sound.
She groaned aloud. She could feel that swollen knob cleaving into her, way up her sucking cunt. She loved it. She loved being fucked, loved his body over hers, joined with hers inside hers.
She tried. She arched her warm, vibrant body up to his as his big organ glided sensuously in her cunt. Her arms pressed him and her hands worked restlessly over his rocking, sweat-dampened body.
Hot waters were rising behind her un-breached dam in peaking, madly teasing desire. She uttered little squeaks of mingled pleasure and need.
Now he was pounding, acting as if he were trying to smash her pelvis, to nail her with her own clitoris. It pulsed and she strained, reaching for ecstasy. Her entire body seemed to yearn out, seeking to achieve sexual pleasure, seeking to achieve the ever-elusive goal of final pleasure: orgasm.
She knew how hard he tried. He varied his pace, slowing down, and she knew he was holding back. Sweat filmed him and transferred itself to her. He maintained the marvelous movements of fucking for a long long time.
At last he gasped, stiffened, shuddered, groaned, and she held his hot, sweating body close as it jerked in orgasm.
She held him there for a time after he had ceased jerking and pumping hot wet seed up inside her. Then he moved, leaving her body open to the cooling air, and she went into the bathroom. She wasn't even sweating.
As always, she was gone a very long time, and David went to sleep. When she at last emerged, her vagina emptied of his semen, she stretched out beside him and stared upward into the darkness. There were tears in her eyes and sobs that wanted to escape her throat, but she wouldn't give way to them.
She was still awake when it was time to get him to the airport. She roused him, they dressed, and although he told her it was unnecessary, she rode with him in the car Juan drove to the airport. And she kissed him good-by.
Claudine watched the plane vanish into the dawn-pearled sky. Then she went home to her secret books.