At The Summit Ch 02

Copyright 2004, All rights reserved

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 - Sophia Teases the Story Out of Me

Sophia tickled me and giggled.

"Tell me more of Dean and Michelle's story!" she demanded. "I know where you are most ticklish!"

I squirmed and laughed as I tried to evade her maddening touch, but she was right. Sophia and I had been bedmates long enough that she knew where she could get the biggest reaction.

It was the night after I had first told her about our mutual acquaintance and his long-ago affair with his French colleague, Michelle. We had walked down to the riverbank at Confluence Park, and had stretched out on the grass. She had lots of questions.

Letting my eyes take a loving look at her curves, I asked her a question:

"Wouldn't you like to continue the story back at the Oxford?"

She pouted comically.

"No! I want to hear it now." She switched to tenderly touching the back of my hand, running her fingers up my arm.

"You make a pretty convincing argument." Actually, Sophia was capable of making a convincing argument on facts-- her business activities were becoming more and more successful. It was getting harder for us to work out visits together, even as it became easier for her to afford the stay at the well-regarded hotel. But now she was enjoying playing a teenager for a bit.

"Will you go to the Prom with me if I tell you more of the story?" We laughed so loud that we frightened a dove that had landed near us. It fluttered off.

"Yes," she kept laughing, picking up on the teen-theme. "And, we'll go to the Turfside Motel down by Centennial Race Track afterward."

"They tore that down."

"The race track?"

"Both of them, I think." I kissed her, and her mouth took mine in a relaxed, sensuous way that belied our tease talk.

"Sophia, you win.....!"

1997 - Leaving on a Jet Plane

As the Denver-bound jet waited and waited for its take-off slot, Dean mentally divided up what he knew into 3x5 cards. It was an old trick that he had been taught in Berlin. Then, he added his own feature, mentally dividing up what he knew he did not know on additional cards. On the final mental card, he placed an imaginary 1970 photo of Michelle in the garden, her head on his lap, her eyes half-closed as she savored the homemade strawberry wine that they had just shared. That was the perfect choice, he thought.

A poet might have picked an image of their first kiss. An Internet writer might have remembered her eager nipples erect and straining two centimeters forward for his kisses. Any man might have wanted to picture that moment when she had first stretched out to receive him. But Dean was not anyone. Somehow, he knew just enough about their time together to know that the occasion when they had been most psychologically connected was there in the garden, now sexually at ease with each other, and with their minds on the same subject.

Now, mentally shuffling the index cards, he began to see the common thread: expectations.

Michelle officially expected to work on a tangential security project supporting the Summit of Eight in Denver. Unofficially, she expected to meet with him to set up private communication channels to bypass the Lepenistes in her agency of the French Government. Privately, she would be carrying out what they had talked about so many years back, meeting face to face when they were 50 years old to find out how each others' lives had fared.

Dean paused, and then mentally pencilled in another card. Sexually, was she expecting something?

His boss expected him to meet with her to set up private communication channels to bypass the Lepenistes in her intelligence agency.

Unofficially, he knew that they would socialize. Perhaps he fantasized a restoration of their sexual relationship.

"Would you like something from the beverage cart?" The 40-something flight attendant sharply interrupted his mental exercise. She sounded frazzled, but it did not jar Dean, as he remembered himself going through this phase in his early 40's. He felt like he was past that now.

"A 7-Up or a ginger ale."

"All we have is Coke, Diet Coke, Mr. Pibb. The Salt Lake passengers drank everything else non-alcoholic."

"Thanks. I'll pass." He turned his attention away. She had reminded him of Michelle's observation when they first ate dinner together. He had not asked for water, would not have thought of it in the German town they were in, as it was kind of mediocre tasting. Michelle, though, had been thrilled.

"You are not like other Americans," the Frenchwoman had purred. "They always demand a glass of water with their meals." That made him feel good, even if it was an accident of geography. She had said it in a way that was exciting. Even now, just remembering it, he caught himself shifting in his seat a bit to relieve a slight pressure in his slacks.

Ahem! Back to his imaginary file cards.

His wife expected that he was on another secret business trip. In the earlier years of their marriage, she had been impressed with his work, put up with the secrets. In turn, Dean had foresworn the bachelor habits which had given him a reputation in the office-- a reputation which tended to grow larger among support staff bound to their desks who got to read second-hand bits of intelligence about his activities. That reputation stuck with him, yet, in the most hurtful irony, his wife had become bored with him as he had settled down.

Dean felt that the people in the office were filling in the blanks with their own prurient interest; things never looked the same after the fact on paper as they did in the flesh. Judy Hardaway, the director's secretary understood this from her experience as a Playmate.

Others though, like Rose in Accounting could remember little things like the $50 expense item for a box of Japanese condoms in Kazakhistan. She had recently made him squirm on getting that expensed-- and she had enjoyed it.

"Honest, Rose! She was the subject of an investigation, and I didn't know how close I'd be getting to her! I was just being prepared, was all. I didn't know her that well. What if the government had to pay for an AIDS treatment for me?"

"Did you use them all?" She had tossed her long red curls back, and pursed her mouth skeptically. Or was it a kiss? "Does our government actually own some leftover condoms which you are hoarding for some unauthorized use?

And why didn't you conform to the Buy American Policy?"

"Rose, if I had known that Alan Greenspan and the balance of payments was involved in this, I would have paid for the damn things myself. Have you ever tried to buy a condom in a collapsing Communist dictatorship? It's not easy."

Rose had pouted. Then she had laughed.

"You don't have to get all excited about it."

"We should have lunch some time and sort this out."

"Yes, we should." She had sounded slightly wistful. At one time, before his marriage, she knew this could have been dinner. She had smiled as his eyes drifted over her slim, slightly athletic figure. But he had stayed on the straight and narrow.

It was harder to do this than Rose might have thought. His wife had turned against his employment as she saw him being dead-ended. The academic work which he had turned to did not mesh with her career, which had not fit into the small college town environment. They were at cross-purposes on too many things, but they were good roommates and liked sharing their family responsibilities.

The Lepenistes-- now there was a card that needed lots of thought. Surely, they must be aware of his rendezvous with Michelle coming up. He almost expected to see his picture or hers on some magazine cover in the airport newsstand, given the leaky launching of his trip. On the other hand, it would be amusing if the opposition had not been paying attention, and all of these preparations had been unnecessary.

Dean leaned back in his seat, and drifted off till the Denver approach. He tried not to be too wary, but occasional glances around took him all the way into Downtown without the feeling of being watched. Perhaps they would be left alone to enjoy their reunion, he thought.

1997 - In Denver

The Oxford was a small, but elegant, hotel in the revitalized LoDo (Lower Downtown) district. He was quietly ushered through the check-in process and to a room decorated with antique furnishings. Ms. Hardaway's smooth preparations continued to make the journey easy.

Dean took off his traveling clothes and tried to take a little nap, but found that he could not sleep. He felt like a high school boy with a big date coming up. There was nothing in the trip that should have made him edgy, but he was. His whole system was gearing up for her.

He went into the bathroom, and confronted himself in the mirror. There were different ways of looking at one's 50-year old body, it occurred to him. Was Michelle still thinking of him as the hard-muscled 20-something who had been so ready for her? Or would she be pleased to discover a man who had taken good care of himself? He felt like a teenager again, laughed out loud at himself, as he tried flexing his arm muscles. The result, though, was good.

Below his still flat stomach, his balls churned busily, preparing for Michelle. His penis was as edgy as the rest of him, starting up, then slacking off. He considered with some amusement that he did not even know what her intentions were; on an objective level he knew that they might just be having a few drinks together and talking about old times as a cover for their work. But his body was taking no chances-- it would be ready, even if his mind was not certain.

He washed himself very thoroughly, shaved for the second time in the day, and put on the British Sterling that she had chosen for him so long ago. It had been hard to find that stuff now, and a Gen-X clerk had rolled her eyes when he had asked for it.

Still not time yet, he thought. He riffled through the mental filing cards again and again, mentally tossed them in the air, and resorted them. Now, though, every card had Michelle's picture on it.

"Let's talk about being 50 together. Denver - June 27 - Oxford Hotel Cruise Room - 18h00." He tried to penetrate the thinking in her cryptic message, to no avail.

Trying not to rush, he took the elegant old iron staircase instead of the elevator. Still, he found himself beating the changing seconds on his digital watch as he walked into the Cruise Room.

Having never been in the place before, he was disoriented for a moment by the decor of the room. Although the hotel was vintage 1890's, this room was pure 1930's Art Deco. Indirect lighting gave an ocean liner feel to the art work and to the scalloped, sweeping lines of the room. He looked around in the unusual lighting, and then spotted Michelle in a booth by herself. He also at that moment registered a man sitting at the bar by himself, too close to her.

She saw him and smiled a smile that melted away Time.

As Dean walked toward her, he saw that her fashion sense had not been dulled. She wore a simple white dress, with gold accessories. Its shirt collar and vaguely military shoulders and stitching, along with the buttons down the front, fit this room perfectly. It also registered in Dean's calculations that this dress was very flexible -- she was so practical. She could adjust the decolletage for work or evening wear. And, for that matter, any man who took an interest in her would notice those buttons and imagine himself undoing however many she had chosen to leave buttoned. This was a dress that covered many possibilities. Her hair was tinted, but not aggressively.

As he slid into the booth in the seat opposite, he was pleased to note that her top three buttons were undone.

He took her hand, and for a long time neither of them spoke. They simply looked at each other. Dean caught a motion of the guy on the barstool trying to watch them, probably puzzled and trying to figure out what they were up to.

Dean raised his eyebrow slightly, and caught Michelle's slight nod in response. He remembered how delicately she could move, and knew from this motion that she had identified the bar customer as a question mark, too.

"I'm so happy to see you again," she murmured. The dam broke, and their words suddenly flowed profusely. So many things had happened in their lives in two decades apart. With so many years in their profession, nothing they said though, was beyond the range of two old friends' conversation. It did not matter to them for the moment-- so many things had to be covered. They lost the rest of the room as their attention focused on each other.

Suddenly they were snapped back into the room by a crash, and a then a half-spoken curse in French. The barstool patron had fallen off to the floor. Perhaps he had been leaning too far over toward Dean's and Michelle's booth, trying to audit their joyous exchange. The bartender rushed around the counter, but Dean jumped up and was first to the prone man's aid.

"I'm fine," the man insisted in English, but equally as firmly, Dean insisted that he remain where he was.

"You may have injured yourself severely, friend." Dean, with an air of concern, took the man by the shoulder as the bartender bent over them. Michelle's calm visage barely changed, but Dean saw that she had guessed what he was about to do.

"See," he said as the man screamed in brief pain when Dean applied his martial arts training from long ago. "Your shoulder is injured now. You probably can't move it."

"I can't move my arm!" the man shouted angrily. The bartender rushed to call the paramedics.

Dean leaned close to the man, smiled benignly for the bartender's benefit, and whispered to the shadow, "you can't move it for an hour or two. Relax and enjoy the time off. When they're booking you at Denver Health, ask for a room with a view of the mountains." Dean shook the man's jacket slightly, and a French diplomatic passport fell half out of its pocket. Dean handed it helpfully to the bartender, who had returned.

Michelle had not moved from her seat in the booth during this time. There had been no cause to, but now she looked questioningly at him. Within herself, contained, she trembled for a moment as she recalled Dean's long-ago tender explorations of her with those same fingers.

"Perhaps we should go for a walk now," she said quietly to him. Dean nodded.

He gave the bartender a card with his Oxford room number scribbled on it, helpfully offering to be a witness in case the barstool-sitter tried to claim negligence on the part of the hotel. By the time he had finished doing this, a fire truck had screamed to a halt outside the hotel, and its crew was clumping through the lobby into the Cruise Room with their first aid gear. Other hotel and dining room guests tried to push their way forward to see what was happening.

"Here, ma'am, if we leave, there'll be room for you to come in." A large woman anxiously pushed past them as they squeezed out of the room. Dean thought he caught Michelle giggling for an instant.

"Did you have to do that?" she said it half-mockingly, half-seriously.

"How else were we going to get some time alone? Was he a friend of yours?"

"He isn't now," Michelle sighed. "I hadn't seen him before, but he probably was sent by the Lepenistes to keep watch over me. I have not been a quiet schoolgirl in my agency. This way..." she motioned with a slight toss of her head. She lowered her Christian Roth sunglasses against the powerful late sunshine.

They were walking along 17th Street, toward downtown. Dean was sure that no one was following them.

"My hotel is the Westin," she answered, before he could ask. "We are going there now. I need your help on a matter of great urgency." There was no question that Dean would go. And then, she added to the mystery:

"I think that you will be surprised. Perhaps pleasantly." She raised her sunglasses above her forehead, giving an air of someone who was completely open to his questions. But it was only an effect.

The escalator lifted them upward to the lobby; the pause allowed Dean to study Michelle's face for any sign of her feelings-- her feelings about what he had so impulsively just done. Without comment, she turned to him with a smile of affection, but it was one that made him feel a bit like a naughty puppy who had just chewed up the morning paper.

They were alone in the elevator for a moment, until an elderly man stepped in after them. They rode up in elevator-silence, hands touching lightly for a moment, alighting before the unsuspecting chaperone's floor.

The dead silence of the hallway was broken by clack of the electronic lock and the heavy door swung open. Dean was conscious of his excitement, tried to discern whether Michelle felt as wound-up as he felt, but detected nothing but a small smile.

A table lamp was on in the room, adding to the natural light of the sun setting over the Rocky Mountains framed in the window behind. Together, the light sources illuminated a young woman, about 19, who was sitting reading a magazine as they walked in. Her shoulder-length blonde hair glowed in the unusual light. She looked up with mild interest.

"Dean, this is Laetitia Brisson."

Dean looked at Michelle and then at the younger Frenchwoman. The family resemblance was there, although Laetitia was taller than Michelle already. He could not help but notice her long legs in the olive long-shirted, black dance tights outfit which she wore rather successfully. Her blonde hair fell naturally to her shoulders- a look that was clean and unaffected.

"Your daughter?"

"Yes." Michelle beamed.

"You didn't tell me!" To himself, Dean quickly did some arithmetic and figured out that she was too young to be HIS daughter. She must be a university student.

"We didn't get to that part of our conversation before my shadow fell off his stool. Why don't we sit down and we can talk some more." It was a question, but Dean detected that her mind was already set on that idea.

They talked for a few minutes, while Dean tried to think up ways to engage a 19-year old in conversation. This was something that he had not done in a long time, and knowing nothing about her, it was more difficult yet. Laetitia offered short answers and simple questions. Perhaps she was shy, or perhaps she was unhappy about her mother forcing her to interact with someone as old as.... her mother! In any case, her presence was not unpleasant, but it puzzled Dean.

As Michelle amplified a story that he had tried to tell Laetitia from their past, Dean madly shuffled the imaginary index cards. He had walked in with nothing in his head about this. Obviously, Michelle had arranged this meeting in this setting for a purpose.

As they talked, he learned that Michelle's husband was the man of whom she had spoken even when she and Dean were continuing their liaisons in Berlin. It had been a strange relationship: Dean had never met him, but felt that he knew the man. Michelle was so logical-- their affair was full of fire, but she had more practical things in mind for a marriage. Dean had never been able to shake her from her plan to go home to her intended. He could do everything perfectly, could feel her hungering for him in their embraces, and she would not waver.

Once, after an orgasm that had carried them both through shrieks that must have caused the interested and envious looks from elderly Germans in the breakfast room the next morning, he even tried to argue with her.

She loved her work outside France, he pointed out. She was the one, Dean emphasized, who had explained the trap waiting for her at home-- that the French educational system had prepared her to be a Kindergarten teacher, and that is what she must be in her small town. After traveling the world, she would be going back to a quiet, perhaps dull, life, in a field that she had discovered was not right for her, and marrying a man who was solid, yes, but.....