At The Summit Ch 07

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.

AT THE SUMMIT

by Prof. Richard W.

(formerly of the University of ____________)

Part 7

Late in 1997

"Yes... like what happened to Dean? And what happens when he goes home? Does he ever get together with Michelle? What does this really have to do with the Summit Conference?" Sophia had asked many relevant questions when we had interrupted our extended bedtime story.

Now we were back at the Oxford in the Cruise Room, where Sophia had agreed to meet me after our errands of the day. She slipped into the booth beside me, sitting close so that we could talk in near-whispers. The waiter who brought the Scotch that I had already ordered for us never blinked an eye. There was something about the lighting of the Art Deco room and its "Queen Mary" liner art that made couples want to touch each other. I felt the warmth of her thigh pressed against mine. Her hand rested gently on the top of my knee, and then slipped idly a few inches higher and then paused.

"And now, Professor, suppose you continue with your tale?" Sophia grinned as she looked down at my reaction to her teasing. She moved her hand another inch closer and then stopped. What sweet torture! In low tones, I began the story.

"Dean woke up at 27th & Arapahoe Streets, badly bruised and with some bleeding. When the paramedics came and carted him off to Denver Health, he had no identification, and at first they and the police thought that perhaps he was a drug customer who had been robbed of his buying money in a deal gone bad. Finally, he convinced the police that he was a tourist who had wandered in the "wrong" direction from Coors Field. He arranged for a couple of phone calls, including from his wife, to identify him. She seemed unsurprised. They treated him for the cuts and abrasion, and kept looking in his eyes and examining him for the effects of the blow he had received, but finally they let him go." I had tried to summarize a miserable day at Emergency as briefly as I could.

"Why didn't his agency help him?" Sophia asked.

"Good question. I think that they wanted to keep up the pretense that he was on his own, just a civil service retiree chasing after his youth." I could understand that myself.

I launched into the story again in earnest.

Before the 1997 Summit

Dean missed seeing Michelle or Laetitia again. They were gone when his miserable day had concluded, checked out and on their way back to France. His room had been ransacked at the hotel, which complicated the next day that Dean spent getting some documents together and getting the money wired to him for a train ticket home. He had no good i.d. for the plane trip, and still could not draw attention to his government mission by pulling strings to get on a flight. It was clear that the Lepenistes had recruited local talent, and he did not have the support to weed them out.

There seemed to be no one watching him when he walked down 17th Street and into the bustling edifice. With the two women gone, and him and his belongings thoroughly screened by whomever was dogging after them, it seemed that the heat was off for a while.

The "California Zephyr" Superliner moved gently out of the station, and after a few minutes of bright industrial glare, into the prairie night. Dean undressed for the berth with stiff movements. He still ached everywhere, and the mirror in the room showed his body to be black and blue in too many places. Sleep was a welcome relief.

Dean remained in his room the next morning, tipping the sleeping car attendant to bring his meal to the deluxe bedroom. This trip was going to cost the government plenty, he thought, but it was less than if they had paid for another day in the hospital. He took advantage of the self-imposed isolation to write his report. The southern Iowa scenery did not interfere with his writing.

It gave him lots of opportunity to review the mental file cards on this situation. It seemed to him that there was more going on than he had been told. Why would the French rightists be making such an effort in Denver? He could understand why they would want to intercept the code key which was now going to link his agency with what he thought of as the real French patriots in Michelle's bureau. The rest of it was not making sense.

Then some of the pieces began to fall together. Yes, the Lepenistes were well staffed in Denver, an unlikely place for them. But they had never deployed enough people to nail down exactly what he and the Frenchwomen and the B&B proprietresses and Tony and their friends were up to. It was as if they were trying to do more than one thing at once.

"Of course!" It struck him that he had been focusing on his own problems, and there were many more facets to the upcoming Summit Conference than a rendezvous with Michelle. He wrote his theory at the bottom of his report, and folded the whole thing to put deep in a buttoned pocket. His laptop had been screwed up when the Lepenistes had search his belongings. Even though all it had were generic programs which would seem innocuous to a snooper, he still missed the convenience. On the other hand, there was something sensuous about putting his thoughts on paper.

His work done for the time being, Dean let his thoughts wander off to the personal aspects of his trip to the Mile High City. He told himself that he should feel rotten -- after years of dogged faithfulness to his wife, even into their best-friends "roommates" status, he had not only fallen off the wagon, but had done it with the daughter of a woman he had loved. He had sent a couple of men to the hospital, involved otherwise innocent people in dangerous associations with him, wasted the time of the police, and did not even know the reasons why. His body ached.

The "retired" agent found himself praying for forgiveness. He was sure that God was not going to explain this situation to him. Yes, he had been operating just as in the Cold War, on the theory that the ends justified the means. Yes, he knew that was morally repugnant, and yes, he admitted, that's how he had operated.

Outside the train window, old-fashioned, white wood-frame farm houses were perched amid rolling green farm fields. On the porch of one of them, a couple of rocking chairs awaited the end of the long work day. On another big porch, a Cocker Spaniel sprawled sleepily on the warm wood. A tractor moved in distant fields. A flag hung lazily from another porch roof. There was no holiday-- just people who liked to put out the flag.

A feeling of calm settled over Dean. It seemed to be some kind of answer to understand that perhaps the lives of these people might have been a bit quieter because he had taken so much craziness into his. Certainly that had seemed true in the Cold War, and now, with the apparent return of fascism in Europe, perhaps it was true again. The Lepenistes and their allies here just wanted to "reimpose standards" for behavior, to "organize society better" and to "restore traditional values."

In a flash, Dean's picture of these farm houses changed. He saw inside them in the Lepenistes' world. A fumbling lout of a youth forced himself into his frigid, frightened bride on their wedding night. In another, a father beats his daughter for "fooling around" with a neighbor man, and down the road in the bar, the neighbor man swaggers among his buddies. In nine months, they'll know his tale is true, because she'll have disappeared to bear his unwanted baby.

Up the road from the bar, the local highway construction contractor walks through the pin-up decorated maintenance shop to meet his secretary. This is going to be a great afternoon - his wife is out of town, AND his secretary is facing a personal financial crisis. This is the afternoon where those big tits and that tight ass that he's been admiring will be his, when she learns that her job depends on "coming across." Dean could visualize the man walking slightly bow-legged, barely able to contain his build-up. The secretary would be thankful that her boss comes mercifully fast, and that as a "gentleman" he'll pay for her backstreet abortion later.

Dean shuddered at the thought of the Lepeniste's vision being imposed on this rural scene. He knew that even here in the American heartland, that values had changed. Perhaps things were not perfect, but people, not just women, but people, had been liberated to a degree. In order to turn back the clock, the Lepenistes would have to impose a modern dictatorship, with all the trappings needed to force conformity. He shuddered. What he was doing to bury this vision was a small piece in a very large picture.

The more conventional image of rural American peace returned just before the car attendant knocked on Dean's door.

"Did you want me to bring your lunch from the diner?" The attendant had noticed Dean's bruises and tired mien, so there was no doubt on his part that this man needed service.

"I think I'll eat out today," Dean grinned. He felt like dealing with the outside world again. He even kept his balance satisfactorily as he stepped across the plates between the rocking coaches. And no one at the table flinched when he was seated -- his visible bruises must be fading.

He looked around at his new dining companions. An elderly couple who turned out to be British, and a 22-year old woman from western Pennsylvania shared his table. Dean let his eyes enjoy his young tablemate's dark attractiveness, but thought little more about her until all four of the new acquaintances were deep in conversation. He had not, Dean told himself, been liberated to chase every skirt passing his way.

Somehow, though, he began to focus on Maria, as he learned more about her. The Greek-American girl focused her soft eyes on him intently, appearing to take in more than she was letting on. He began to let go of the British couple, interesting though they were, and found himself drawn to learn more about Maria. As their eyes drank in each other, he caught her breathing pacing his, her pupils dilating. His own must be, Dean mused. He found himself noticing that the silky tan material of her blouse rose and fell on attractively-shaped breasts. She had a pleasantly feminine figure, could have a potential to gain weight, but looked as thought her exercise or hard work kept her in this nice shape. Someone who respects herself, not extreme in any way, Dean thought.

Dean probed in questions to learn more. Maria was a sociology graduate who wanted to work in law enforcement. Dean found himself beginning to slip into an old cover story about being a retired Federal Bureau of Investigation agent - his employers had been amused at one time to use a competing agency as a cover story for times when someone might suspect that he worked for the government. It was especially useful when things went wrong, Dean recalled.

Perhaps flattered by the interest of someone in her chosen field, Maria listened eagerly to Dean's suggestions. He actually was helping her with constructive suggestions, he realized, but he also saw himself gathering information which would draw her into his bed. But if she wanted that anyway, then it was okay, right? He struggled with that.

His head was too full of issues to concentrate fully on her, but he was certain that many of the things that she was saying could be taken two ways. When she asked him how it might be best to get started, there was something about the way that she said it that made him wonder - are we discussing career or tonight on the next train east of Chicago? Then she mentioned that she would not sleep well in coach, and his mind filled rapidly with the beauty of her stretching out for a good night's sleep after a round of lovemaking in his sleeping car room. He shaped the offer in his mind.

Looking for the best double-entendre, he segued from a statement of hers into asking her if she had considered working undercover. The result startled Dean, as Maria drew herself up in the chair, her breasts jutting out assertively, her voice firm.

"The kind of people who work under false names and identities get so lost in them that they are INCAPABLE of having a relationship. I wouldn't want to go into that, and I wouldn't want to have to spend much time with people like that." Her words were stern. Dean realized that she might have tried having just such a relationship, and had felt betrayed when she learned about the falsehoods that her seducer had employed.

A part of Dean wanted more than ever to take her now, to prove to her that she could enjoy a night with someone who she said she would despise. Another part of him told him to call it quits, to enjoy their conversation, and then say "goodbye" for the afternoon and for good.

The waiter arrived with their checks. The British couple and Dean signed with their room numbers, Maria began to reach into her purse.

"Let me cover that, Maria," Dean insisted. "It's been great fun talking with you, and I'd like to help you."

"Oh, no! I'm working now, even if it's waiting tables - I can take care of myself. You needn't." She smiled and laid the money graciously out on the table, including a generous tip. Her independence charmed and challenged Dean even more -- he wanted to reward her somehow, even if his allegedly better side kept him clear of making a pass at her. As she sorted out the change, suddenly all the pieces fell into a plan of action for them, one which evolved from his night with Laetitia.

He had to act quickly, drawing on his instincts for the right moment, after the Britishers left and before the waiter returned.

Reaching across the table, he took her right hand and held it in mid-air. Interrupted in her sorting, she looked at him curiously.

"I can do a bit of palm-reading and tell you about your future," he chuckled disarmingly, "it's a logical hobby for someone who looks at fingerprints and palmprints all day." They laughed together, and Maria nodded agreement with his plan.

"Hmmmm." He adopted a professional air. "Hmmm..... verrry interesting!"

"What do you see, Mr. Fortuneteller?" She was intrigued.

He drew her hand closer to her face, so that it was out of focus.

"Take a close look at this... and as your hand naturally and easily drops away, you will find yourself feeling very relaxed, open, comfortable with me." Her hand began to glide downward, as her eyelids drooped. Dean fought against the temptation to rush her, prayed that the waiter would stay away for a few more minutes in the now near-empty diner. He could not go on for long.

"When you feel very relaxed, when you enter a pleasant trance, your middle finger will press against my palm." He was still holding her hand, palmist-style. He felt the pressure response, and stroked the top of her hand three times.

"And you will recognize that sign again, when I stroke your hand three times, and you will feel then just as comfortable and as deeply relaxed as you are now. You will find it difficult to remember that consciously, you have so many things to think about, all the things we talked about, but your subconscious will enjoy remembering that for you." He spoke gently to her, but with a firmness to which she responded with pressure on his hand again.

"And as you are very tired this afternoon, in a few minutes you will want to return to your coach seat. You will realize again when you reach it that you told me that it is hard for you to sleep there, and you will enjoy thinking about a sleeping car berth. Think of the crisp, inviting sheets, opening for you. But now it is time for you to awaken, to feel refreshed and relaxed as the waiter returns with your change...." Dean had caught sight of him over Maria's shoulder just in time.

Late in 1997

I looked at Sophia, wondering if she was going to react as negatively to Dean's unsolicited use of hypnosis as she did before. However, her own eyes were half-closed as she had learned to trust Dean, or perhaps as she had simply surrendered to her enjoyment of the story. She snuggled wordlessly against me in the lounge booth. So I continued.

Before the Summit in 1997

They rose to head their separate ways, and Dean made some offhand comment about having enjoyed her company, wishing they could chat some more. The young woman turned her soft eyes on him and commented that it was going to be awfully hard to sleep on the "Capitol Limited" tonight, so he'd be welcome to come up and sit up with her for a bit if it wasn't past his bedtime. Dean laughed and assured her that he wasn't that old yet.

"I'll come to see you in a few minutes after the "Capitol" leaves Hammond," he promised. They headed toward the opposite ends of the dining car - she toward the colorful, interesting and restless cross-section of the world in the coaches and he to the silent, closed doors of the affluent or privacy hungry. Dean turned for a last look at her and caught her turning to do the same. They blushed and turned away again.

During the Chicago layover, Dean made some hasty new arrangements, switching from the slower, but scenic, "Cardinal" to Maria's train and obtaining an upgrade in his sleeping car room to the deluxe size bedroom. It would probably not be approved on his travel expenses, but it would be worth paying the difference.

Back in his new compartment after making arrangements with the conductor, Dean hurriedly tossed things into some kind of order, and repacked some of his belongings. He hadn't planned on a visitor, especially not this sort of visit. And what sort of visit was it anyway, he asked himself. Had his unusual session with Laetitia in Denver suddenly released the old Dean of premarital sexual adventure? Or could he take an interest in a woman without trying to turn back the clock? He could just not go up to the coach and everything would be fine, but then he would never know, would he?

Hammond-Whiting, Indiana winked by, and Dean reset his watch for Eastern Time.

Dean tried to sit down for a minute or two and review the mental file cards as he normally would, but they kept coming up with blanks or with questions on them. There was only one way to fill them in. He closed the door of the room and headed toward Maria's coach.

3013, 3012... he worked his way through the swaying aisles of crowded coaches. The overhead lights were already dimmed now, but about half the passengers had switched on their reading lights. The little spotlights lit the heads of the people who he had been defending through all those years of the Cold War - a grey-haired lady doing needlepoint, an unmilitary-looking young man off in space with headphones blocking out the world, a 30-something German couple trying to consume their hundreds of hours of holidays. He wanted to announce those contributions that he had made to them, but instead he told himself that he had enjoyed what he had done, and that perhaps he was just trying to rationalize a forthcoming night with this attractive young woman as being something that he deserved.

Car 3011... his eyes swept the half-darkened, half-empty forward car till he found Maria. She had a pair of seats to herself, and was curled up catlike, jotting entries in a notebook. The little spotlight caught her hair and gave her a kind of iconic halo until she looked up.

"So, you came up here to see how the other half live, eh?" She smiled when she said that, but there might have been a bit of sarcasm in it. She swung her stockinged feet off the seat and motioned for Dean to sit beside her. As he sat, he could feel the twin warm spots beneath him, where she had been. He was pleased to note that as she shifted position, her well-rounded breasts showed off attractively.