European Travels – Chapter Two : Parisian Nights

Usual Words. This story is a work of fiction; no inference with real people or events is intended. You must be 18 to read this story. If your not, just read it anyway. You might learn something.

This continues my first series, so watch this space over the coming months for the next instalments.

Feedback and constructive criticism would be nice. It offers a huge amount of encouragement, as well as providing useful analysis. I can’t get better at this unless you guys give me some input. The address is petervongrunigan28@yahoo.co.uk

Just a quick recap of Chapter One. “London Calling”

Jon Carter attended
the BRIT Awards, and hooked up with Avril Lavigne at the after show party. After spending the night with her he left for Paris, which is where we pick up the story.

Anyhow. Enough of me, read on into the action.

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European Travels

Chapter Two : Parisian Nights

The Eurostar train slid into Gare de Nord, Paris at precisely 13:31. Disembarking and collecting my luggage I cleared security and then hailed a taxi. Stowing my belongings in the boot I climbed in,

“Hotel de Paris, s’il vous plait.” I instructed.

“Oui monsieur.” The standard response of any taxi driver.

I settled back and thought about my plans for the weekend. Today and tomorrow were diplomatic exercises, I was to confer with French Officials about a possible joint bid for the 2010 Football World Cup.

Sunday was shaping up to be a great day, as I had the morning free to explore Paris, something I’d always wanted to do. Even though I had been to the city several times they were always flying visits, with no opportunity for leisure time.

Sunday afternoon I was going to give a lecture at the Universite Paris on the consequences of war was Iraq, one more opinion on the world’s hottest topic.

I lay back in the seat and closed my eyes. I thought of Avril, she would probably be on a plane back to the States or Canada by now. I wondered if she would ever call me. There was no point worrying about it though, I couldn’t influence her decision.

Opening my eyes I surveyed one of the great symbols of Paris, the Arc de Triomphe. The skies above it were dull, and I couldn’t help but wonder if my business appointments would be the same way.

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Meanwhile, back in London.

At 10 Downing Street Harry Mortimer and the Prime Minister were deep in conversation, discussing the photo in that day’s paper.

The Sun lay on the table, the centre pages revealed a spread on the BRIT Awards after show party. In particular the two men focused on the picture of Jon Carter and Avril Lavigne walking from the building.

The headline screamed “LAVIGNE LET’S GO WITH PLAYBOY CARTER”

The Prime Minister was almost screaming as well.

“What the hell does that kid think he is doing? Leaving a party with some bimbo on his arm!”

The Press Advisor shook his head, out of the Minister’s vision. As if he was going to know who Avril Lavigne was.

“Look, he’s young. He’s just having a little fun.” He protested.

“Fun? I didn’t give him his post so he could have a little fun! Where is he?” There was no stopping the Prime Minister in this mood, and Harry knew it.

“He’s on some kind of European tour, Sir. You sent him on it to make sure we aren’t obstructed in bidding for the World Cup with France.” The Press Secretary tried not to sound patronizing.

The Prime Minister just glared at him, then issued his order.

“When he gets back to London, arrange a meeting. I’ll get it into him that he can’t go about having a little ‘fun’. We’ve got local elections soon, this is the sort of stunt that gets you booted out of office. Mind you, he’ll be lucky if I let him run.”

The Press Secretary decided it was worth raising a point.

“Sir. We’ve conducted polls already this morning. 40% of voters said they were indifferent to his behaviour, and another 40% praised him for it. Only 10% of those polled suggested it might affect their vote. The public love him, something like this isn’t going to damage his reputation.” He said.

The Prime Minister turned away in ignorance.

“Get him here, Harry.” He commanded.

Knowing when a meeting was over, the Press Secretary gathered his things and left the room, realising Jon Carter was probably about to be removed from the front bench.

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Come Sunday morning I was sick of diplomatic discussions. My French was OK, but not good enough to pacify several irate Frenchmen who believed that they should have sole control of any World Cup bid.

You know the old saying “Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer”? It’s kind of like that with us and the French. They live right next door to us, and are biologically identical, but it’s a whole different race, one to which I had little clue about its workmanship.

Exiting the hotel in casual clothes I turned towards the river, walking slowly into the fog and gloom of a Paris morning. The air was damp and clammy, and the streets were quiet. Almost the same as a winter’s morning back home.

I crossed the Seine at Pont de la Tournelle. I stood on the Ile St. Louis and turned a full 360 degrees, enjoying the panoramic view of the city from ground level.

Turning left onto Quai D’Orleans I hurried along the pavement. Trying to burrow deeper into my coat, I thrust my hands into the pockets in a desperate attempt to keep out of the cold. Spying a small jetty shrouded in fog, I walked onto it and stood silently. For seconds all I heard was the lapping of the water against the wooden boards, I was oblivious to the faint sounds of traffic.

The river still had traces of mist lying across it, and the far bank was nearly obscured. I still managed to sight a solitary figure on the shore, wearily moving bricks from a fallen wall.

I kept my sight on him as I thought about my life. Who was Jon? No – one. I didn’t have a family, I had few friends, I was anonymous. I suppose its my own fault really, politics became my single goal, I lost touch with those who I had once known. When my parents died I was 22, and in the two years that had passed since then I had drifted from life itself. I had my career, but that was about it. Mr Carter was an amazing professional, but he didn’t have much of a life outside of it.

Jon Carter was buried under the bricks. The wall had collapsed, but there was no one to rebuild it. Sure, I had tried, but, like the man on the shore, I was facing a fruitless task.

I lowered myself to the ground, and sat cross legged, my eyes still intently watching the man. He had been joined by an accomplice, and between the two of them they were constructing the foundations of a new wall.

I allowed myself to fantasise, just for a few seconds. Maybe Avril could help me start over. I silently begged her to ring the number I had left. During the night with her I had awoken, and lay there, enjoying the warmth and company of a loving body next to me.

I gave a rueful smile and shook my head. Who was I kidding? I was probably another one night fling to the Canadian singer, never to be given a second thought by her. Still, if I closed my eyes I could touch her, and relive that night. At least I didn’t have to worry about her getting hurt if I never saw her again.

A hand grasped my shoulder firmly; I bolted forward, just catching my balance in time to stop myself falling into the murky water. Spinning over onto my back I tried to speak, but my words caught in the surprise.

“Hey! What the hell?” I tailed off as I overcame the shock.

The figure had also been startled by my reaction. The person was cloaked in a great coat, with the collar turned up, obscuring the lower half of their face. The eyes though, gave the femininity of the figure away, and the amazing features easily showed the shock and fright of the woman. She backed away, stuttering.

“Excuse e moi, oh, er, Sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Je pense si! Pour quel était cela?” I spoke angrily.

She was just about to turn, but by this time I had regained some composure. I realised there had been a flash of English in the madness.

“Hey. Wait. Did you want to talk to me?” I said.

The figure moved no closer, but spoke with a more assured tone this time.

“You seemed lonely, upset. I just wanted to see if you were OK.” She said.

“I’m fine, thank you very much. I appreciate you asking though.” I paused. “I was just sitting here, thinking”.

“Yes, I come here sometimes. May I join you?” the stranger asked.

I shrugged. I didn’t really want company at the moment, but it was a free country. I motioned for her to take a seat.

She lowered herself next to me, and turned down the collar of her coat. I cast a quick look at her, before returning my gaze to the water. My mind suddenly caught up with my vision, and my head snapped back towards her. She gazed into my eyes for a second as I studied her. Surely there was no mistaking the face, not when I had seen it so many times. I elected to try my luck.

“Can I ask? Are you Virgine…?

“Ledoyen.” She completed my question for me. “Yes. Are you Jon Carter?”

I briefly considered denial as a route of choice, then realised my momentary pause had probably answered the question. Settling for a simple nod I heard her continue.

“I’ve watched you for a little while, I was so sure it was you. I came over to see.” She explained.

“Well.” I stopped for a second. “Thank you. May I ask how you know me?”

“I attended a lecture in London a few weeks ago. You gave a talk on Anglo French cooperation over Iraq. It was interesting, I enjoyed it.” She said.

“Cooperation didn’t exactly happen did it? That lecture got me into a lot of trouble.” I smiled ruefully.

“Oh, and why was that?” she pressed.

“We all have to toe the party line on Iraq, in public at least.”

I moved on, eager to avoid any more questioning on that issue. Once again my acting before thinking had caused another dressing down from the Prime Minister. It is safe to say the two of us are not best friends, and never will be.

“I must say, I’ve enjoyed some of your films, En Plein Coeur particularly.

She smiled, and her face lit up, accentuating her sharp Gallic features. She looked down awkwardly, but I knew enough about women to see she had liked the compliment. Virginie paused to think, choosing the best words for her reply.

“Usually many people only recognise me from ‘The Beach’, its so nice to be praised for my other work.

I finally realised that meeting a major film star by the Seine wasn’t an everyday occurrence.

“What brings you to the river, Ms Ledoyen?” I asked.

She gave a light laugh, a beautiful sound.

“Its Virginie, please, or just Ginie, if you prefer.” I nodded, so she continued. “I live in Paris when I’m not away working. I often just walk around in the mornings, and if I dress like this people don’t really recognise me. I just come to the river to think, the same as you perhaps.”

I had to question the wisdom of being out on a morning like this.

“Haven’t you got a nice warm house to think in?” My tone of voice indicated that the question was a light hearted one. She answered it seriously anyway though.

“Of course I have a flat nearby. But it is lonely, empty. Acting leaves you with few friends to call on. So I come outside, and at least I see other people. How about you?” she asked.

“Well, the same, really. If you substitute politics for acting anyway.” I hesitated, digesting her statement. “How come you don’t have many friends in acting?”

“I think,” she tilted her head slightly, “people are scared to approach me.” She said.

My silence gave way to her continuation.

“I suppose it’s about people being scared to approach celebrities. Most people don’t know how to talk to me, it hurts sometimes. I get very lonely.” She said.

I avoided her gaze.

“You can sit here and talk to me if you like?” I offered. I looked up to see the same smile from a few minutes ago looking at me.

“Thank you, I’d like that.” She said.

We both settled on the jetty, looking out over the strip of water. For several seconds I waited, trying to prepare an intelligent question. I teased my eyes sideways, enjoying the image.

Long black hair framed a rounded face, one that could communicate any emotion at a moment’s notice.

My memory shifted to my last year of school, and a Business Ethics lesson. The poster that occupied the far wall of the room always asked a rhetorical question. I spoke it out loud.

“If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?”

Virginie gave me an odd look, with her eyebrows slightly raised.

“A very curious question?” she said, her language problems causing the sentence to break down. I knew what she meant though.

“I thought I’d ask something directly. Its normally my style.” I said, with a smile on my face.

“Since you ask, I shall answer. Real friends would be nice, you know, people who will always be with you, but don’t demand from you. Tu comprendes?”

Virginie stopped abruptly, realising her instinctive lapse back into her native tongue. She made to apologise, but I began first.

“Its fine. I speak French fairly well. It took me a long time to learn though. And yes, I do know what you mean. People who will be there for you in times of trouble.” I elaborated.

“Oui, exactement! I can be on my own, but it would be much nicer to have friends, or a boyfriend even.” She again turned towards the river, breaking the eye contact we had engineered.

“I live alone in London. I survive, but I would like someone with me. I’ve got no right to complain about my lot though.” I speculated idly on my life.

Virginie’s face tightened.

“Your, lot?” she asked. It was obvious she hadn’t understood the phrase.

“Oh, er, my lot. My life as a whole.” I explained with a wave of my hand.

“OK.” She gave a look to the Cartier wristwatch on her arm.

“I’m sorry Jon, I must go. I have things to do later.” She said.

We both rose, and I extended my hand.

“It was a pleasure to meet you Virginie. If you are ever in London, come and find me.” I made a genuine offer, not one stemming from courtesy. I handed her my card.

“I shall do that.” She fiddled with the collar of her coat. “Au revoir, Jon.”

I chose not to reply verbally, instead just lifting my hand in acknowledgment. Virginie turned and walked away. I watched her disappear over the bridge, noting that the early morning mist had started to clear. Checking the time myself, I realised I had to get going if I was to get to the Universite on time.

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I heard the hushed voices in the auditorium, and I felt my hands shake as I straightened my tie. The fear is something I had never shaken off, even after a few years of speech giving. I knew it would resolve itself as soon as I got to the podium, so there was not much I could do but accept it.

The Compere began on stage.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I give to you, The Right Honourable Gentleman, Mr Jon Carter MP.”

He withdrew from the podium, and I emerged from the wings, accepting the polite applause from the gathered people. Easy, long strides took me to the front, where I deposited my cue cards, and took a sip of water. I waited for the applause to subside before beginning.

“The world today is at war. As a people, we tried to stand as a democratic barrier to that. World leaders, great men, believe that violence is the only way to solve this conflict.”

I paused, allowing the audience to digest my opening remarks. Sure enough, the fear in my stomach had gone. Relaxing into the atmosphere, I continued.

“However, I’m not here to debate the merits of war. I’m here to talk about possible consequences of such a war. Now, I know there are a lot of us in here today, but can I just have a show of hands. Who thinks the American motive for the war is control of Iraqi oil reserves?”

I turned my full attention to the audience, noting the show of hands. I scanned the crowd, noting that many people had hands in the air. I finished my perusing in the front row.

Suddenly I stopped dead. Sitting demurely not 15 feet away from me was Virginie Ledoyen. We locked eyes, and she tilted her head slightly and smiled at me.

I continued through my speech, occasionally punctuating my remarks with a glance at Virginie. Each time she responded to me, either with a smile or a wink.

***********

I came to my closing statement.

“Ladies and Gentleman, I hope that you have all learnt something from my words this afternoon, and I thank you for listening.”

With that I stood back from the podium, accepting the warm applause coming from the crowd. For me, it is one of the most satisfying, moments in politics, knowing that people have respected and enjoyed my thoughts.

At this point I looked again to the front row, and I was disappointed to find that Virginie had left already. My mind was ticking over ; why didn’t she mention to me that she was coming?

I left the stage, en route to the room the staff had kindly provided for me. Reaching the door, I entered, contemplating the closing of my official business in France. I walked straight to my briefcase to deposit my cue cards, aiming for a quick exit.

“Well, hello.” The voice came from the furthest corner of the room. I didn’t need three guesses to realise who it was. Without turning towards her I spoke,

“Are you stalking me?” I asked jokingly.

She laughed. “Non, I came to congratulate you on your lecture.”

“C’est bien?” I asked.

“Tres bien” she replied, a smile hidden behind her eyes.

She emerged from the dark corner, and like a true orator, began her words with dignity, belying the message she delivered.

“I said earlier, that I was lonely.” She paused. “I didn’t just mean I don’t have many friends, also, I know few men.”

She seductively ran her hands down the gap in her top. As she stood, I noticed how elegant she looked in a plaid skirt and blue shirt. With every movement she exuded confidence, and her hair was framed perfectly around her face.

As I admired her form, her speech continued.

“Mr Carter, I find you very attractive.” She said.

I moved my gaze, trying to play embarrassed. There is, however, a good reason why I’m not an actor, and so my emotions were obvious. I hoped against everything I had that this was going the right way.

“You are lonely; I am lonely. We could be so good for each other.” She continued her powerful words.

By now she had completed the journey across the room, and stopped right in front of me. She raised her hands, and began to play with my tie. No more words were necessary. She pulled it loose, and threw it to the floor, before starting on my shirt. As she fiddled with the buttons I lost myself for a moment, peering past her shoulder.

I began to cast doubts on my own mental sanity. I thought I must have been hallucinating. How might Oscar Wilde have put it? To have one celebrity throw herself at you could be regarded as rare, to have two in a week seemed like a product of Jon’s dreamland.

Virginie tugging upwards on my shirt ended my philosophising. I looked in to her eyes, enjoying the mischievous expression. I leaned in to kiss her, forcing her mouth open aggressively, slipping my tongue inside. She reciprocated, showing a slight passiveness to counter me.

I broke the short kiss, and lowered myself to her neck. Starting at the base, I ran my tongue up over her throat as she titled her head backwards to allow me a better angle. Her skin tasted of expensive soaps and perfumes; everything I would have expected her to wear.

Her button up shirt was plain, but obviously expensive, no doubt hand made in a Paris boutique. I took care to unbutton it and push it away from her shoulders, revealing the plain white bra underneath. Again, plain, but exquisitely crafted. It did just enough to accentuate her breasts without hiding her natural curves.

Now that she had removed my shirt, it was Virginie’s turn to move along my neckline, placing passive kisses on my shoulder blade. I leaned into her and wove my arms around her back, using my fingers to deftly unhook her bra.

The garment fell to the floor, and I tilted my body backwards, shifting my eyes down at the same time. Even in the harsh lighting of the dressing room, Virginie’s breasts looked perfect, spread an even distance apart, the erect nipples jutting out proudly.

I went to move my hands to feel them, wanting at the first opportunity to experience the contours of her body. Even at this early stage of foreplay, my excitement, and the lump in my trousers was steadily growing.

Suddenly Virginie dropped to her knees, denying me what I wanted. I let out a small growl to show my disappointment.

“You don’t want me to do this?” she asked.

Without waiting for a reply she ripped my boxers down, exposing my cock, now fully hard in anticipation. Without a word she grabbed it with her hand, stroking her fingers up and down my shaft, while using her free hand to cup my balls. Her long nails tickled my skin, almost overloading my senses. I could barely wait for what she was going to do.

Very slowly and deliberately she moved her head towards my dick, she blew her breath out through her mouth, the warm air felt great on my balls.

I finally regained physical control over my body, and immediately took my hands to her hair, running my palms through it. The long black locks felt great against my fingers, and whenever Virginie gave me a little extra pleasure I gave a small tug on it.

Virginie finally took me into her mouth, gently easing my cock inside her as she ran her tongue along the side. It was so gentle, but amazingly arousing. She seemed to be quite experienced in this art, and it somehow aroused me even more to think of this elegant actress as a slutty cocksucker.

I stood silently as she sucked me off, concentrating totally on the sensations she gave me. Virginie was always varying her actions, so I was never allowed to settle. She almost took my entire length inside her, then withdrew again. Sometimes her pace was fast, others it seemed like she had almost stopped.

Virginie took great delight in biting at my cock with her teeth, and finally pushed her pace to an extreme, forcing me nearer to an orgasm. I looked down, her tits were swaying gently with her body as she was shifting, trying to get a better angle on my cock.

I had used every fibre of my mental strength to hold out and delay my orgasm, but it was now coming whether I liked it or not. I tried to pull back from Virginie, who drew her hands around my legs, and clamped down on my shaft gently, preventing me from withdrawing.

I let out an involuntary shudder of excitement. No woman had ever let me cum in her mouth before, now I had a sexy celebrity on her knees practically begging me to do so.

Virginie took me back slightly so that only my tip was inside her mouth, and then gently ran her tongue over it.

Before I knew it I was cumming, firing out into her waiting lips. Her swallowing action felt amazing with the cum being sucked out of me, it was one of the most intense orgasms of my life.

In seconds it was over, my softening cock and heavy breathing the only evidence of my pleasure. Without realising it I had closed my eyes, I reopened them and focused downwards.

Virginie looked up at me, a slight rope of my cum running down her chin. She used the back of her hand to wipe it, and then gave me a wide smile. I just stood, with a dizzy grin on my face, not quite believing the last few minutes weren’t a dream. The whole experience suddenly got too much for me, and I tried to sit down.

Therein was my basic problem. I tried to sit down with my trousers bunched round my ankles, and no chair in sight. With a hard thump I sat on the floor, fortunately carpeted so I didn’t hurt myself too much.

Virginie burst out laughing, compounding my misery. I was well aware I had just made a total fool of myself without having it rubbed it. I hung my head sheepishly and tried to play for the sympathy vote.

“Guess I killed the mood, huh?” trying to mask embarrassment with humour.

“Oui,” was all she managed before dissolving into another fit of giggles.

She finally stopped, looking at me apologetically.

“I’m sorry.” Her face made it plain that she wasn’t in the slightest.

I shrugged. Her mock sorrow made me feel no better. Her next words though, did.

“Want to go again?” she asked.

I tried to crawl across the floor towards her, but she placed her hands on my shoulders, stopping me from rising to meet her.

“No, not here. Tonight maybe. You have a hotel?”

I frantically searched my mind for the details.

“Yes. Hotel de Paris, Suite 34.” I said.

Virginie raised her eyebrows, apparently impressed with my choice of accommodation.

“8 o’clock?” she asked. As if I was going to say no!

I settled for a nod, and with that she pulled on her sweater, stuffing her bra into a handbag that I had failed to notice previously. Within a few strides she was at the door and opening it. Turning, she blew me a kiss before departing.

I lay back full length on the floor, well aware that anyone entering would wonder what I was doing fully exposed.

Not wanting such an idea to come to fruition I stood up, pulled up my trousers and then swiftly put my shirt on.

Finally making myself presentable again I gathered my belongings and left, my mind spinning at what had just transpired.

I’d never really thought of politics being a sure fire chick puller, but it seems I was wrong. The thoughts of Government cleared my mind instantly, reminding me that I was still investigating this corruption. All that could wait until the morning though. I walked back to the hotel, scarcely containing my excitement at the thought of what the evening might bring.

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After spending the rest of the afternoon and part of the early evening walking in the main part of Paris, I headed back to the hotel.

I walked along the main corridor, cursing the fact that I had returned just as the cleaning staff had started on my hallway. I almost went flying over a cable, and gave the man using the appliance a shake of the head. There was something odd about him though, like he just looked out of place. I dismissed the notion, and fumbled for my wallet.

The swipe card opened the door first try, and I stepped into my hotel room, enjoying the warmth. Paris in March is cold, and walking all the way from the Universite had made me exposed to it. I began to remove my jacket, when I was shocked by a voice.

“I was wondering when you’d get here,” a familiar tone said.

For just a fraction of a second I couldn’t place it, then it came to me. I turned, a greeting smile on my face.

“Paul. What the hell are you doing here?” I held my hand out, which he grasped and shook.

Paul Deighton is a member of MI6, assigned directly to the Government. Threat detection was his specialty, and he had been working inside the Culture department as an intelligence source for a while now. Probably due to the fact that we were the same age and had a lot in common, we had become quite good allies, if not really friends.

“I figured you could use my help,” Paul said.

I began to get some beers from the minibar. “Oh, how’s that?” I questioned.

I offered a 1664 to him, which he rose to accept.

As I handed Paul his beer, he settled back in his chair, preparing for a story.

“At 8:30 Friday morning, MI6 screened a call to your mobile. MI6, or to be more precise, me. I heard the guy who threatened you, he sounded as if he meant business. I may have some information for you, but first, I need to know what you are investigating.”

I paused, before starting to tell my story. I trusted Paul implicitly, his security clearance went almost to the top, and he was in line for a top job at The Firm within 10 years.

“You remember the London Olympic bid last month?” He nodded. “That bid divided most of the cabinet, and it ended up a 50 / 50 split on the vote. Among those who didn’t want the bid to proceed were the Prime Minister, and my boss, the Culture Secretary.”

I walked to the window, and observed the Eiffel Tower, preparing my next words.

“The others who voted against the bid were easily swayable though. So, an independent study was commissioned by my Office, which subsequently found that such a bid, if successful would most likely create a positive effect for London during the next 15 years.”

I paused to take a hit of my beer, then continued.

“The report they produced was delivered to me, and I prepared to present it to the Cabinet. The data in the report was sure to mean a yes vote to any bid, as it could sway the undecided ministers. Before I gave that speech, the report was taken and destroyed. My investigation is to find out by whom”

“Couldn’t you just get another copy of the report?” Paul asked.

“No. Since it was classified Top Secret at that point, only the PM could request another one. I could hardly go to him and say I lost it, could I? Anyway, I had no idea who produced it. As I said, it was an independent report. To ensure that we can’t influence the researchers, we aren’t told who they are.”

“So who destroyed the report?” Paul continued his questions.

I subtly glanced at my watch. I really didn’t want Virginie arriving with Paul here. I wasn’t going to let anything stand in the way of this evening’s fun.

“My boss, I presume. You see, to be elevated to the very top level in this Government, you have to get on with the PM. One of the Cronies, if you like. Anyway, the Chancellor and the PM decided against the Olympic Bid since they didn’t want to allocate the funding. By siding with them, my boss probably hoped to get a spot in the Home or Foreign Office in the next reshuffle.

I know it’s a little thin as far as conspiracy theories go, but it’s all I can think of.”

Paul sat there nodding.

“You’ve got it all worked out. And, to a point you’re right.”

My jaw was almost on the carpet in disbelief, so Paul continued.

“MI6 monitor most Government communications. Last Monday I heard two phone calls, each less than 20 seconds. The first one instructed that report be destroyed. We know the number dialled, it was your bosses’. So, she did destroy the report. The second call was the reciprocator, confirming the destruction. The problem is, we don’t know who made the first call. No one answers when the number is rung.”

“Can’t you trace the SIM Card?” I had a feeling I was asking a patronizing question.

Paul’s withering look confirmed it.

“What do you take me for? Anyhow, the phone is simply registered to Government issue, a Pay and Go mobile. The interesting bit is though, is that mobile was the one from which the call that threatened you was made. Hence I found you as fast as I could.”

Paul looked at his watch.

“Look, I have to go. I need to be in Geneva by 9 tonight. Damn body guarding business.”

He held up a document wallet.

“This folder has all the information in it, including the number of that mobile, and transcripts of all the phone calls.”

Paul handed the folder to me and made his way to the door. As he opened it he turned and looked at me.

“Oh, one other thing,” he said. “What was it like to fuck Avril Lavinge?”

I laughed. “The only way I’ll reveal that is with a gun pointing at my head!”

Paul opened his coat slightly, showing me the Glock 9mm that all MI6 field officers carry. “Don’t tempt me Carter.” he said. “Later”

I gave a half hearted wave and watched as he slammed the door behind him. Placing my empty beer bottle on the table I collapsed on the bed. Raising my hands, I massaged my temples and then ran then through my short hair. I could feel a headache coming, and that wasn’t the best frame of mind to be meeting Virginie in.

This situation was getting worse by the day, and I remembered the warning the Deputy Prime Minister had given me.

“I mean, if she is guilty, fine. But if not, well, you probably loose your job.” I could hear his deep, rumbling voice inside my head.

I thought of the threat I’d received Friday morning, and briefly wondered whether to take heed and drop my investigation. I immediately dispatched that idea ; even if I wanted to, the Deputy Minister knew about it, and would hopefully carry on regardless.

That was part of the reason why I’d approached him in the first place when I had suspected foul play. He was committed to seeing a clean Government, one which had truly done its part for Britain. He was one of the old school, and I knew he wouldn’t betray my trust.

I pushed the thoughts from my mind, letting the anticipation of tonight wash through me. I jumped up and headed for the shower, hiding the folder in my briefcase first.

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I used the dimmer switch to darken the room. I had always found a dull light in a room very sexy, darkness even more so. It allows you to concentrate solely on the touch and contours of a body, rather than just visual sighting.

The knock on the door came precisely at 20:06. She was fashionably late. I took a deep breath and opened it, allowing Virginie to enter. She stepped into the centre of the room, and I surveyed her as I closed the door.

Her simple short skirt and sweater served only to accentuate her beauty and elegance. Her poise exuded a confidence that wouldn’t easily be broken.

I debated how to greet her, eventually settling for a quick kiss on the lips.

“Are you comfortable standing? Maybe you would prefer the floor?” Ginie’s smile made the reference obvious. It was the first time I had seen her sense of humour, and I didn’t really like it, not pointing at me.

Something inside me snapped. It was only a small tease, on a totally minor topic, but it broke me. The pressure that was inside me had boiled to the surface, and Virginie was about to receive the channelled anger.

I thought of her innocent line. Not wanting to be reminded of the latter parts of the afternoon’s events, I strode towards her quickly, immediately trapping her with a forceful kiss on the lips. This was going to be hard and fast; the time for dancing around each other was over.

Virginie eagerly responded to my kiss, obligingly lifting her arms so I could pull her sweater up and over her head. This time I wasn’t to be denying caressing her tits. Again I wrapped my arms around her and unclipped her bra, before moving my hands to her breasts, squeezing them roughly. Virginie’s moans were signal enough to me that she was enjoying the coarse treatment of her body, so I began to let my hands roam over her, returning to kiss her forcefully at the same time.

Ginie just stood with me, giving in to my frantic desires. I couldn’t even think about moving to the bed, I just pulling downwards, sending both of us to the floor. We never broke our kiss for an instant as she landed on top of me. We were now writhing about on the fur rug on the floor in the centre of the room.

I felt Virginie furiously pull at my trousers, it was obvious she was in the same mood that I was. I bucked my hips into the air, forming an upside down u shape with my body supporting her light weight on top of me.

She wrenched my slacks off, sending my shoes flying to opposite corners of the room with the force of her tug. She looked truly amazing, black hair splaying everywhere as she roamed her face over my chest, kissing and biting the exposed flesh she found there.

As she moved over me I removed her trousers as well, displaying for the first time her panties, which matched the dulcet cream of the bra she had just discarded. They were tight to her body, fitting her hips perfectly. I took a few seconds to enjoy Virginie’s touch, so soft, yet so erotic. I idly ran my fingers along the outline of her underwear, before grasping her ass lightly, trying to visualise its perfect curves that were obscured from my sight.

I forced her panties down her smooth legs, I was desperate to get inside her. The intense passion was an intangible presence in the room. We were now both naked, and for two strangers we seemed to be perfectly in harmony with each other as Virginie shifted over my body on the floor.

For the first time Virginie ran her hands over my rock hard erection, and I shifted at the touch. Not because it was unwelcome, but the anticipation was killing me. I couldn’t wait any longer.

Virginie didn’t resist as I guided her in a tandem roll with me. I was now on top of her, and I placed my hands either side of her to support my weight. She had her eyes closed, and was waiting for me, I could sense it. I felt her part her legs beneath me, and the expectation had reached its peak.

I slid into her, enjoying every sensation. Her pussy wasn’t tight, but it felt wonderfully warm around me and I pushed myself in further, finally having all of my dick inside her.

I began to set a fast pace, running myself in and out as fast as I could. Virginie raised her hips as I pulled out each time, and then slammed them back down again as I forced into her, her ass being jolted by hitting the floor each time. Several times she hit the floor so hard the compression was passed through into my cock, serving only to stimulate me further.

Virginie just lay back and took everything I gave to her. Her arms were spread out on the carpet, and her body writhed beneath me, urging me to force herself inside her even further.

If anything, her lack of participation infuriated me, and I thrust into her as hard and fast as I could, and for what seemed like forever I was oblivious to her, totally focused on my needs.

I came back with a snap as I realised Virginie was on the verge of cumming. A thin layer of sweat was on her face, no doubt identical to me. Her breasts were heaving, and immeaditaly I moved my hands to them, squeezing them roughly, inadvertently pushing her on even more. Her tits felt amazing. So firm, yet so supple. I pushed them together as hard as I could, and she gave a small scream, loving the rough treatment. Instantly a word ran through my mind.

“Bitch.” I shouted.

She had no right to orgasm, my pleasure came first this time. Either she didn’t hear me in her mental state, or just ignored me, but her moaning intensified, and her movements became frenetic. Her moans gradually turned into short, breathless screams. This wasn’t the act of love, just hard, rough sex. And she loved it.

I ignored her, and concentrated on myself, pushing my dick into her harder and faster than before. My cum began to build, and I tried to delay the moment, making that most intense moment of pleasure last as long as it could.

It was over in an instant. I blasted my cum deep inside her cunt, forcefully lining with everything I had. The feeling of being totally filled pushed Virginie over the edge, and I was dimly aware of her orgasm as I came down from my own high.

Her head was thrown backwards as far as she could, trying to angle me deeper into her. I was still fairly hard, despite cumming. I leaned down to lick over her right breast, tasting the sweat on it, enjoying the limit I had taken her too.

She gave one final scream, and then her body exploded into a rapture, furiously burrowing around beneath me, trying to force herself onto my dick one last time. Finally she fell still, and I looked to see her black hair plastered over her forehead, and flowing everywhere around her, the dark colour in contrast to the red of the carpet.

************************************************************************

My senses gradually returned, and I lay on the rug with Virginie. I stared straight up at the ceiling, hearing my deep breathing provided an echo to hers. I knew she was next to me, but I just wanted to take a moment before speaking. My anger was over, the sexual games had dispersed it.

“That was good. Very good.” In its overly pleasured state my brain seemed devoid of superlatives.

The next sentence though, gave me all the wake up calls I needed.

“A pity it was only a one off.” She said, as casually as if she was describing the weather.

I still focused on the ceiling, deliberately making my body seem distant from her. At first the words shocked me, then I realised that they were fairly logical, and at least Virginie had the courage to say them. Nevertheless, I make a token attempt to salvage something, even against my own wishes. It just seemed polite, somehow.

“But there could be…” I said.

Virginie cut me off even before I could think of my next words.

“No Jon. We don’t know each other, and all this came about because we are two people looking for comfort. To ease the loneliness.” She continued. “We may never meet again.”

I finally turned to face her, and allowed a little disappointed edge to find its way into my tone.

“I understand. This was,” I paused, “convenient for both of us.”

The word sounded wrong as it came from me, but it was all that described this situation. A convenience fuck. An ugly term if I ever heard one. I took some minor pleasure from knowing that the worlds top actresses got the urge as well.

I got the feeling that there was no more to be said on the topic. We both understood the rules of the game, we were both adults and we saw this in black and white.

Virginie leaned forward and kissed me on the forehead, then drew back and whispered.

“You’re a nice guy, Jon Carter. Take care of yourself.”

With that she rose quickly, and made to pick up her clothes, looking first to see where they lay. As she moved into the bathroom I allowed myself one more look at her naked body, admiring her great ass.

As soon as the door was shut I jumped up and pulled on my boxers and shirt. I had only managed the bottom three buttons when the bathroom door reopened and Virginie walked towards me.

“Au revoir.” She simply said, and made towards the door, glancing back at me.

I couldn’t really think of anything to say, so I just nodded feebly in an attempted signal of decorum.

The door closed quietly, and for a few seconds I just stood there, reflecting on the irony that I had just made love to a woman who I was never likely to see again. To say the least, it was not normally my style, and certainly not something I wanted to make a habit of, even if it was celebrities propositioning me. I shook my head, and made my way towards the minibar, picking up my trousers from the floor on the way.

Virginie had left just before 21:00, and after a quick drink, I tried to get my head down for the night. I had to catch an early flight in the morning, and it was imperative that I be sharp and focused for the afternoon meeting.

However hard I tried though, I couldn’t doze off. There were just two many unanswered questions running through my mind, Government corruption not being the least of those problems. The others, well, Avril Lavigne. I thought I was unlikely to hear from her again, which was a pity since I had taken a real liking to her. Onwards and upwards though, I suppose.

Virginie though, was puzzling me. When we parted, our relations were perfectly clear. Meet, greet and fuck. Then goodbye.

The more I thought about it though, the more I was sure that the river meeting was not the coincidence she made it out to be. Then there was her appearance at the lecture. Why not tell me that she would be there? I hadn’t mentioned it, so she must have known beforehand. I was sure the whole thing was premeditated, but I just couldn’t see the why or the how. More questions thrown on an ever growing pile. My life was becoming far stranger than usual.

Only one certainty remained. I was going to get no answers tonight. Finally I drifted off, the sounds of the Paris traffic a constant disturbance in the background.

************************************************************************

I was awake and vacating the room by 7:30, and stopped briefly for breakfast. I collected my luggage, and went to the front desk to sign out. The clerk greeted me.

“Bonjour Monsieur Carter. Ca va bien? She asked.

The same politeness faced everyone.

“Oui, ca va bien merci. Peux j’avoir la facture, s’il vous plait? I responded.

I gave a cursory glance at the slip of paper she handed me, blowing out my breath slightly when I saw the final total.

I used the American Express card to pay the bill, and turned to collect my luggage. The clerk hailed me again.

“Monsieur Carter, il y a un message pour vous.”

She handed me the envelope, which I stuffed in my pocket.

I went outside and found a taxi, and loaded my bag into the boot, instructing the driver that Charles de Gaulle airport was our destination.

Upon arrival I checked it for the flight. I sat down in the departures lounge, and remembered the envelope. I withdrew it from my coat and opened it. On a typed sheet of paper was a crude message.

‘BEEN CHATTING WITH MI6 HAVE YOU?

I SEE YOU DIDN’T LISTEN TO US. LETS TRY AGAIN. IF YOU CARRY ON WITH THIS INVESTIGATION YOU WILL LOOSE YOUR CAREER. IF YOU IGNORE US AGAIN, NEXT TIME THE WARNING WILL BE MORE PERSONAL’

“Bollocks.” The word slipped from my mouth instantly, drawing disgusted glances from the other occupants of the lounge.

I screwed the letter up in fury. They knew of recent events. How could my meeting with Paul be known to anyone but us? I set my jaw, resolving to get to the bottom of this. I felt the first stirrings of fear inside me, I could guess what type of physical persuasion they had in mind, and it usually involved baseball bats or the like. I heard a call in the background.

“Flight Air France 56, Paris to Zaragoza. Boarding at gate 10.”

I gathered my things, and walked towards the gate. Maybe I would find more answers in sunnier climbs, as I continued into Spain. A short flight and a train journey would bring me to Bilbao.

************************************************************************

The two gentlemen rose as one from the table. The taller, older man replaced his set of headphones in the rack, while the younger of the two closed the transmission.

The smile that passed between them indicated the success of the operation. The bug was in place, and Jon Carter had become a marked man. They assumed he had received the message that they left at the front desk.

Together they left the room, trying to calculate the time the flight would arrive in Spain. As soon as the flight was over, they would have to be back on the airwaves.

The younger man tossed his coffee cup into a nearby waste bin, and exited the building into the morning sunshine. The time was 08:58.

************************************************************************

Part III – “A Life Uncommon?” coming soon

Ó Peter Von Grunigan

April 2003

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END