At the Summit

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.

"Let's sit down here for a bit... we're running ahead of schedule." He indicated the lawn in front of the historical house. Michelle snuck a peek at her watch and agreed.

The limber young woman folded her jacket into a pillow, and stretched out on the lawn, catlike in the warm sun. She closed her eyes, and Dean envied the way that relaxation moved through her.

Dean found himself half-sitting up beside her, looking out over the grassy expanse. Looking casually around, he spotted motion in the corner of the property, half-shaded by a large tree. A bit of reflection could have been a camera lens.

"Damn!" he muttered between his teeth. "Who is that?"

Michelle blinked her eyes open.

"Don't move!" he whispered, and brought his lips to hers. Barely touching hers, he told her about the glimpse of a reflection.

"Yours, mine, or theirs?" she chuckled.

"Maybe all three in one? They're cutting costs." Dean grinned and kissed her gently again.

Somehow, the ice was broken by their exchange and the shared hypothetical danger. She puckered teasingly, asking for another kiss.

"Does Charles de Gaulle know you are doing this?"

"I am doing it for France, so it's tres bien with him."

Dean brought his left hand to her waist and traced the outline of her curves up and down. She breathed more deeply, and her shirt-blouse moved up and down quite satisfactorily. She closed her eyes again, once again relaxing in a way that Dean had never seen before.

Michelle's blue-green eyes remained closed as his hand followed her side back up to her breast. They remained closed as he gently touched her breasts, each in turn. Only a tiny, trembling almost-pucker of her lips showed the enjoyment she was taking in his "pretend" exploration of her body. That he was still trying to be a gentleman about it only made his attention more exciting.

Watching her miniature reaction closely, and hoping to give the photographer in the bush something to get glossy prints of, Dean opened one button on Michelle's blouse - second one down. Around the couple, at decently-spaced intervals, other couples and families were stretched out on the lawn. No one was watching openly-- only the felt presence in the shade.

Through the small opening that he had made, Dean's fingers found the satin edge of her brassiere, and slipped off its smoothness onto her skin. The warmth was more than he had expected-- he could feel it rising around his hand through the opened blouse.

In a way that he later learned was tantalizing, he traced the edges of her curves-- nothing grabby, nothing exotic, but with a gentle curiosity that she had never before experienced. She felt herself growing warm all over now.

Michelle sat up suddenly.

"You thought I was asleep, didn't you!" she asserted sternly, as she rebuttoned her blouse. The twin points of her erect nipples made her all the more sexy at that moment, not to mention belying her mock outrage.

"And I thought you were enjoying that!" Dean asserted back.

"I was, but that's beside the point!"

Michelle caught the camera's reflection this time, and pouted for the next photo.

"Let's go! We'll make him earn his pay-- for whomever." Dean rose, and suddenly became aware of how his own excitement was pressing against his briefs. He straightened his pants and hoped that his manhood was not as obvious as it felt right now. He looked around, but life on the great lawn continued placidly.

Like their two countries at that time, or just about any time, they went through the afternoon and into the evening just like that. They teased each other, they talked business, they agreed, they disagreed. They led the representative of whatever other power around and around the German port, until finally, they found themselves on an Elbe ferry coming home.

"You really do like me, don't you?" Michelle whispered to Dean.

The thrumming of the diesel engine in the small ferry shook them gently, and the gurgle of water broken by the bow brought them close together to be able to hear their own whispers.

"Yes. If this was a different situation, I'd be plotting how to go to bed with you tonight." He said it in a matter-of-fact tone that she suddenly felt was admirable. This American was so honest!

"Naturellement!" she thought. "We are healthy young adults, we are supposed to be lovers, and no one will know if we take advantage of this situation. It would be crazy to go through some motions in my room for eavesdroppers, and then each of us go to our own beds touching ourselves to finish off the evening." But to Dean, she just smiled, and kissed him in a long embrace against the rail.

And thus, after more kissing along the way, just for the benefit of whoever was tailing them, they found themselves upstairs in the hotel.

1997 - Time in a Bottle

Dean shifted in the big chair, hoped that no one would come down for a midnight check on him, as he thought he felt as swollen and moist now recollecting it as he had been back then. These memories were so strong through the fog of Time. He could remember the scent of her perfume.

He remembered them meeting, as agreed upon, in her room. They were supposed to hang around a bit, bang around the furniture a bit, and then that would be it. Simple.

1970 - Cold War Outside

Outside the room, the sound of a ship's horn in the hafen reminded them of where they were. Inside, it was timeless. The hungry young couple, rested, excited with each other's personalities, and feeling more and more a part of each other, in an odd kind of way, a way impossible to explain to anyone else.

Dean felt awkward. He wondered if the room was bugged, and therefore signed to Michelle that they should kiss - loudly.

She obliged.

They were nervous again. What to do next? What to check?

"I'll turn out the lights so we can take a peek outside," Dean whispered.

Michelle nodded agreement - it made sense anyway, given what they were supposed to be up to.

With the lights out, she stepped to the window, and with one graceful move, slipped the blind back enough to see that a figure was standing in the shadows of the florist shop doorway across the street. In the cinema it would have been a man in a dark overcoat. In real life, she could not make out more than the general shape of the watcher. She tossed her head window-wards to indicate to Dean that he was right in guessing that someone would be out there.

Dean saw that, and he saw the grace in this simple movement. Very professional, of course, not jiggling the blind in a way that would catch the street light, but also very sensual. He drew in his breath.

Dean felt himself to be a bundle of contradictions -- finding himself attracted to Michelle, wanting to remain professional with her, not wanting to have her feel like he was doing more than called for in their respective scripts. This was a knot too tough to untangle.

And then Michelle took the step that changed everything.

"I have decided to make things simpler," she calmly asserted-- as if she had read his mind. "Please turn on the little lamp by the bed."

He reached down to do so, and then, looking up again, he saw that she had begun unbuttoning her shirt-blouse.

Dean could not remember what he said next, or whether he just stood there with his mouth open. His eyes followed her adroit fingers from button to button. Her brassiere caught a bit of the light in the room-- enough to see that her rose-colored satin covering fit perfectly. Michelle was not busty, Dean realized much later. Her allure was in her self-confidence, it was in the smile which showed her enjoyment of his reaction, and, perhaps, it was in her knowledge that everything that she wore was perfect for the occasion. Of course, she was French!

In one smooth motion, Michelle turned slightly, deftly touched the clasp behind her, and leaned forward a bit to let the bra fall away. She turned back to face Dean, painting the pale lamplight across her freed bosom. Her dark jeans framed her waist and contrasted with her light complexion. A bit of the Viking raiders who had penetrated France in Norman times was in her, emerging as a few dainty freckles in places that Dean had not seen before.

"I have heard that American men like breasts," Michelle teased in an octave lower than normal. "But you are just standing there. Perhaps I was misinformed?" She giggled. The giggle moved the upturned nipples on her taut breasts quite attractively.

Now laughing, now kissing, the couple fell into each other's arms.

Michelle found that she enjoyed his steady strength around her, and Dean thrilled to feel that wave of relaxation sweep over her there in his embrace.

They continued like that for longer than most couples do in stories like this one. As they teased and tugged, cuddled and caressed, and as he proved that American men like breasts, they washed away the stress of the day in bubbles of laughter and caring attention to one another.

Somehow, finally, at last, the moment was right, and Dean's hand followed the inevitable path over her tummy to her belt. As his fingers arrived there, she drew in her breath, and he opened the way to her already moist curls. The sound of the zipper sliding down its track suddenly seemed like a freight train in the still of the night. The jeans hung gracefully open about her hips, half unzipped.

Michelle stopped a laugh in mid-cry, and held her breath for a moment as she savored the sensation of his touch rising over her Mount of Venus, pausing for a moment, and then descending to hold her in calm intimacy.

"I have heard that French women like men who have a steady hand." Dean imitated her throaty statement of what seemed like ages ago.

"But, of course," she imitated her own accent. "And what is that steady hand about to do?"

"Pay close attention, and you'll find out." It had occurred to Dean that Michelle had learned some things in her intelligence training about men, but perhaps might not have learned as much about herself.

She started to reach for his shirt button. He felt her muscles moving in their embrace.

"No, sweet Michelle, just relax again, and let me enjoy touching you." She raised an eyebrow, but did as he asked.

In a moment, Michelle thought, he'll be clawing at me in desperation. She licked her lips ever so slightly at the thought.

Now, from the center of Dean's steady cradling of Michelle's sex, his finger tip moved slowly back and forth across her opening, then in a small circle around it. She felt her sacred space contract involuntarily in delight at his touch.

His mouth moved from her nipple, kissing the tender underside of her breast. As she felt that skin gently drawn into his kiss, she also felt his finger move with confidence into her wetness.

"O!"

Michelle cried a tiny exclamation, half a sudden breath and half a word. Still dressed, other than the blouse and bra, which lay limply on the floor, Michelle was weighing an insecure part of her mind that said to get undressed and get into bed, and get him into herself.

Another part of her mind was filling with lovely chemistry, washing away all the rationality, letting her see every part of every action, even though it was yet hidden from both of them. That part was a powerful woman, and Michelle could feel this power spreading through her, glowing hot in her growing femininity. The vagina of this woman was rich and complex and worthy of the bold explorations and tender ministrations which the American tendered to her.

"C'est mon espace, mon petit cinema prive'" she realized, as her English faded into a swelling pink cloud. She smelled the scent of her perfume rising, mingling with a touch of his shaving lotion aroma.

"I must go forward," she said to herself in English, clutching at her ability to get out this phrase. Dean heard this only as sighs and half-words, but it mattered not, since he was caught up in each tiny secret of her.

Michelle willed herself to relax again, and then gave herself to be pleasured as the strength within focused on his offering.

Just as she became used to it, his finger moved purposefully outward, drawing a wet trail behind it. At her inner lips, he moved so slowly that she could feel their gentle closure.

He circled her hard clit with his moist finger, placing a silken-feeling screen between their skin, protecting her from the roughness of his fingerprint, he said. Then, somehow, she could not have explained how later, two fingers cradled, caressed her clit, and yet his finger was inside her again, barely moving, deep inside.

His active outer fingers moved encore to her inner lips, to her outer lips, and back again to her highest point. Wherever needed, somehow he was there.

Had she been able to hear her own sounds, she would have understood. Delicate sounds, and sometimes urgent whispers, "a droit, non, non, a gauche!" She directed his touch without conscious thought, having released her mind from checking everything with her rational, insecure self. Her French words brought him back to her hard peak, and then his commanding touch was within again, causing such heat as she had never known. He was deeper, harder, more intense.

"Oh, regarde cheri comme elle est jolie ma chatte!" She smiled wickedly, and kissed Dean before he could ask why her cat was happy.

Michelle cried out again as he begin to caress her pussy in earnest now, listening for her whispers to bring his fingers to the perfect rhythym. She wanted to lift herself into the air, felt like she could have, but they were leaning against a wall.

Along with that new sensation, Michelle began to grow conscious of something new inside of herself. Although Dean was deep within her, tenderly meeting her requests, he had resisted her words and movements that would have pressed his finger hard against one particular place. And yet, she felt a growing sensation there, a feeling that a new part of her was unfolding, uncoiling, straightening, reaching out to him from within.

"I want your finger inside me as deep as it will go." Somehow the English words came out with sensuous undertones. She heard him respond to her, making a deep sex noise that reflected the height of his own excitement at realizing that he had found her special pleasure point. She felt his new enthusiasm in their kisses, and in the renewed energy within his finger. Feeling him responding in so many ways pushed her closer and closer to the release of the ecstasy he had masterfully built within her.