Contributed by Richard Williams for the enjoyment of Literotica's readers. This fictional story is copyrighted and may only be used for your personal pleasure. It may not be sold, distributed, or posted on another website without the author's permission.
by Prof. Richard W.
(formerly of the University of ____________)
1997 - the Clinton Era
Sophia stretched out on the rumpled sheets, enjoying the feel of my eyes gliding over her cooling curves. Not long before, the sheets which didn't cover us had been cold to the touch, had made us cling together for warmth. And warmth is what we had generated-- lots of it! Sophia looked down to my now shy penis as it drew itself in to a modest pose. There was a look of satisfaction on her face. Her tongue briefly darted to her lips, as if to re-taste her success.
We were in our favorite room at the Oxford, just down the block from Denver Union Station, handy to where we first had entered the Mile High City. Sophia and I had managed once again to make our travels mesh, once again had enjoyed the fireworks of meeting after too long apart.
"Tell me a story," she urged. I knew from this that she had energy to spare, and did not want me to drift off to sleep, either. In fact, I knew Sophia well enough to know that she had other things in mind once the story came to a climax. Fortunately, events had given me a tailor-made response.
"Do you remember Dean Fields?" I watched for a sign of recognition.
"Was he at the universi... oh, yes!" She chuckled at the misunderstanding.
"Right, his name is Dean, that isn't his title. We used to laugh about that when he guest-lectured. If he had stayed on, he could have become Dean Dean and really sent us up the wall."
"He was kind of a pleasant man. I only met him once, but I liked him. He had some kind of government early retirement thing."
"Yes, and perhaps that's where I should begin my story."
"I was thinking of something a wee bit more... erotic." She grinned and moved her chest just a bit in a restless way -- just enough to draw my eyes.
"You haven't heard the story yet. I think you will be pleased more than once by it." I cleared my throat in a storyteller manner.
"Once upon a time, a little over a month ago..." I intoned, "the Summit of Eight conference was held right here in Denver. World leaders and hangers-on right here."
"I knew that. We couldn't get this room then." Sophia pouted comically. Folding her arms over her breasts, she imitated mock resignation.
There were pages and pages in the newspapers on this event, down to what drinks particular world figures ordered. But below their level, only occasional anecdotes slipped through, and certainly not this story.
Sophia fluffed an extra pillow up behind herself so she could sit up. Dean was retired, as Sophia had said, but when the planning was underway for the event, he received an intriguing message. It was brief, but rang a responsive chord deep within his heart.
"Let's talk about being 50 together. Denver - June 27 - Oxford Hotel Cruise Room - 18h00." That was all the message said.
Late that evening, he sat in the big chair in his suburban Washington, DC home and folded and unfolded the message, passed to him through secure channels known only to a few. Finally, he pressed it carefully into Newt Gingrich's book that he had just finished ("no one would look there," he thought.). He picked up the telephone.
Dean dialed a number, the number of the man who had brought him the message.
"Dean! I thought you'd be calling. Business or pleasure?" The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled.
"Perhaps both."
"I thought so; going to make contact again, eh?"
"Apparently."
"Come by the office in mid-morning. June will work up something for you." The receiver clicked in Dean's ear.
It was quiet in the house now, his family asleep. Dean leaned back in the big chair, and half-closed his eyes.
1970 - the Nixon Era
Dean was in Hamburg. THEY were in Hamburg.
He and Michelle Brisson were meeting there on a shared mission-- each to contact the other on behalf of their prickly countries' intelligence interests. Strictly business, get up there from Berlin, define some mutual objectives, and get back. That was the agenda, but it was under the cover of a script that called for them to be lovers from some ill-defined time before.
The tawny-haired Frenchwoman had come up on the train from Bremen, on her first solo assignment, full of textbook learning and businesslike as could be-- awkward for someone who was supposed to pretend to have a romantic out-of-town fling with him.
Neither of them had been very happy about that part-- staging what once would have been called an "assignation" -- the joking by their colleagues, the wonder at what they would say to their own intendeds. It was not an easy situation.
Michelle had not liked it when he called her a "Frenchcicle" when they made the rounds of waterfront tourist attractions that morning. It took a bit before she realized that he was just as up-tight about the concept.
Some horny higher-ups were having a big joke at their expense.
Still, she knew that she was not unpleasant to look at, and that he seemed to be kind and gentle in spite of the situation. Perhaps they could make something of this if they tried.
After lunch in a riverside cafe, they had sped past the burgerly furnishings in the Hans Jenisch Haus museum too quickly, becoming excited with their policy discussion, which was the official purpose of their meeting.
"Guys are licking their chops back in Berlin, fantasizing about us, and we're getting warmed up over policy!" Dean mused to himself.
