There is something fundamentally wrong, thought Gus Keller, in staying at the home of the man you have been hired to kill. In smiling and smiling, and being a villain.
They had arrived at Lightning Ridge that evening. Keller had been surprised at his first sight of it, rising out of the desert. It had looked like a normal town – albeit of only two thousand people – and somehow in his reading over the past couple of days he had gotten the impression that most of the buildings in the town had been built underground, because of the heat of the day – over 100 degrees Fahrenheit each and every day during the winter…and hotter than that during the summer.
And indeed, when he stepped out of the air-conditioned car it was like walking into a furnace.
The six foot six Alain Pretorius had met them at the door of his home…which did appear to have been half built into a hillside. It was a luxurious home…in an understated, tasteful fashion.
Keller had watched as Pretorius had greeted Marguerite Zelle warmly..extremely warmly, he’d thought in an annoyed fashion. And she had returned his warm smile. He’d seen that before…the way her eyes and face had lit up when she spoke up with Pretorius, the first time they had met.
Pretorius’ smile faded…only slightly… as he turned to greet Gus Keller. He extended a large, well-manicured hand and Keller took it. Keller half-expected Pretorius to try to crush his hand to show off his strength, but it was just a firm handshake, nothing more.
“We’re ready for dinner,” he said in his low baritone. “I expect you’re famished.”
The meal was delicious, and Keller and Marguerite (or as Keller knew her, having lost his memory, Taran Tula) ate with enjoyment. Keller liked to watch her eat…not so much because she was particularly attractive when she ate, but just that she actually did eat…didn’t pick at her food like so many women nowadays who were afraid to eat and preferred to look skeletal rather than the slightest bit well fed.
After the meal, Pretorius took them on a tour of the living room, where dozens of examples of opal from Lighting Ridge were displayed.
Keller watched as Taran Tula moved from opal to opal, gazing at them with rapt attention. She picked each one up, and tilted it this way and that, watching the play of fire within the living gem.
He looked up to see Pretorius watching her as well. He too seemed fascinated by her….
Keller swore to himself. There is something fundamentally wrong about all this, he thought, sadly.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 32
Gus Keller rested his forehead in his hand as the large car drove toward Lightning Ridge, home of Australia’s largest black opal deposits…and of the man whom he and Marguerite Zelle were supposed to kill.
“This is it,” he thought. “This is it…this is it…this is it.”
His thoughts were chaotic. He had had a good night’s sleep, and his memory had still not returned. He still couldn’t remember who he was, although he knew what he was… a cold-blooded assassin.
*Was that logical? He thought. If he were an assassin, would he really think of himself as a cold-blooded killer? Even without his memory? Wouldn’t he be the same person? Just as cold-blooded now as he had been then? What made a person have ethics and morals….the way they were raised? But if he couldn’t remember how he was raised…why did he have ethics now. Why did the thought of killing someone fill him with abhorrence?
At least, killing someone for hire, he amended. There were plenty of people who *should be killed. Rapists. Murderers… his thoughts trailed off.
“This is it…this is it… this is it…”
Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the beautiful form of Marguerite Zelle. She was watching the scenery passing outside her window. She looked so….patrician. So beautiful. Even when she’d been firing off that shot gun earlier today. The way she’d stood there, in total control of that weapon. He had found that so damn sexy, even though there was a subtext there…how many people had she killed with such a weapon.
But when she looked at him with those eyes…smiled at him with those lips….he was just ready to melt.
“This is it…this is it… this is it.”
Every tick of the odometer was bringing them closer to Lightning Ridge, and his destiny.
“This is it,” he thought. “This is it…this is it…this is it.”
His thoughts were chaotic. He had had a good night’s sleep, and his memory had still not returned. He still couldn’t remember who he was, although he knew what he was… a cold-blooded assassin.
*Was that logical? He thought. If he were an assassin, would he really think of himself as a cold-blooded killer? Even without his memory? Wouldn’t he be the same person? Just as cold-blooded now as he had been then? What made a person have ethics and morals….the way they were raised? But if he couldn’t remember how he was raised…why did he have ethics now. Why did the thought of killing someone fill him with abhorrence?
At least, killing someone for hire, he amended. There were plenty of people who *should be killed. Rapists. Murderers… his thoughts trailed off.
“This is it…this is it… this is it…”
Out of the corner of his eye he looked at the beautiful form of Marguerite Zelle. She was watching the scenery passing outside her window. She looked so….patrician. So beautiful. Even when she’d been firing off that shot gun earlier today. The way she’d stood there, in total control of that weapon. He had found that so damn sexy, even though there was a subtext there…how many people had she killed with such a weapon.
But when she looked at him with those eyes…smiled at him with those lips….he was just ready to melt.
“This is it…this is it… this is it.”
Every tick of the odometer was bringing them closer to Lightning Ridge, and his destiny.
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Ch 31
“Pull,” called Michele Bravo.
Jan Janasz swung his arm in an arc, and the clay target released from the hand-held skeet thrower and soared out over the ocean.
Michele brought her shotgun to bear quickly, pressed the trigger, and watched as the clay pigeon disintegrated.
“Pull,” she called again, and the process was completed.
Although they were scheduled to leave for Lightning Ridge, Michele had felt in the mood to do some skeet shooting right then, and Janasz had accommodated her. Adaams nd Gus Keller were watching also.
Michele enjoyed skeet shooting…indeed, any kind of target shooting, from pistol to sniper to shot gun. She felt a kinship with the weapon in her hand…it was part of her – an extension of her. And the feeling of complete control she felt as she utilized that weapon to destroy target after target…it made her feel good…in control of her own life.
Which explained why she’d been in the mood….because she felt out of control in the rest of her life. This scenario with Gus Keller wasn’t going as she had planned, and she didn’t like it when things didn’t go as she’d planned. The more so when the failures could be laid at her door.
So, she did some trap shooting, which helped to clear her mind and center her focus, and put herself back into control.
The fact that she was impressing her audience of three men no end was just a delightful byproduct.
Jan Janasz swung his arm in an arc, and the clay target released from the hand-held skeet thrower and soared out over the ocean.
Michele brought her shotgun to bear quickly, pressed the trigger, and watched as the clay pigeon disintegrated.
“Pull,” she called again, and the process was completed.
Although they were scheduled to leave for Lightning Ridge, Michele had felt in the mood to do some skeet shooting right then, and Janasz had accommodated her. Adaams nd Gus Keller were watching also.
Michele enjoyed skeet shooting…indeed, any kind of target shooting, from pistol to sniper to shot gun. She felt a kinship with the weapon in her hand…it was part of her – an extension of her. And the feeling of complete control she felt as she utilized that weapon to destroy target after target…it made her feel good…in control of her own life.
Which explained why she’d been in the mood….because she felt out of control in the rest of her life. This scenario with Gus Keller wasn’t going as she had planned, and she didn’t like it when things didn’t go as she’d planned. The more so when the failures could be laid at her door.
So, she did some trap shooting, which helped to clear her mind and center her focus, and put herself back into control.
The fact that she was impressing her audience of three men no end was just a delightful byproduct.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
Erotica by Bravo: Dighton & Forrest in new series - Part 1
I.
Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest walked hand in hand through the WASP museum, which was located in the original Hangar One on what had been Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas.
In 1941, just after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the armed forces of the USA mobilized to go to war, thousands of women wanted to do their part. They were encouraged by the government, who put out propaganda posters for them to go to work in munitions plants, and to join the WAVES and so on. Jackie Cochran, the most famous aviator of her day, wanted the government to use female pilots to ferry planes around the country, freeing up male pilots to go overseas.
Originally she was turned down, and she travelled over to England to fly with the ATA pilots there – which included women. Meanwhile in the USA , Nancy Harkness Love continued to press the military, and finally the WAFS – women’s auxiliary ferry service, was formed. Hearing of this success. Cochran flew back to the States and insisted on a larger program…which would become the WASP – women auxiliary service pilots.
From 1942 to 1944, over 1800 women trained at Avenger Field, and a little over 1,000 women graduated and became ferry pilots. The last class, which graduated in December, 1944, never got to fly, however. By the end of 1944, the Allies knew that the war was won, and they began to make plans to integrate soldiers back into peacetime society. Part of this plan was to get women to give up their jobs and go back to being homemakers, allowing the soldiers to have jobs to go back to.
This included the WASP, who were disbanded right after the last class graduated. They were civilians, and had to pay their own way home, and they and their services to their country were forgotten until the 1970s.
Avengers Field was still in existence, and in 2005 Hangar One was turned into a museum for the WASP. The small town of Sweetwater still had several buildings from that era, as well.
“I’m thinking,” said Sasha.
“Yes, my darling?” asked Peter.
“You know how we’ve always talked about retiring and running a B&B?”
“Yes, but that’s a looooong way in the future,” Peter said.
“Well…why don’t we do it now? I was walking through the town earlier today, and there’s a few shuttered businesses. I was thinking we could buy one, start up a B&B, and do it with a WWII theme. We could put plays on WW II-plays, and have themed events, and capitalize on the current interest in the WASP.”
“That’s a pretty ambitious plan,” commented Peter, “but I like it.”
II.
A Big Band was playing swing music in one corner of the ballroom in the Avenger Field Canteen and Caravan B&B, the new business of Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest.
Everyone in the ballroom was dressed in either WW II era fatigues or clothing. The band was dressed in tuxedos. A professional dance pair were regaling the diners with classic dances of the period. When they took their break, the diners got to their feet and cut the rug.
Peter, dressed as a WWII pilot, and Sasha, dressed as a WASP, did the boogie woogie with the best of them.
Although this was their business, they were having fun with it. They had hired a manager and a variety of staff, whom they let do the work, while they entertained the clientele with their plays, or, as on this occasion, simply pretended to be customers themselves.
This was “the night before shipping out” event, and couples had checked into the B&B to have a romantic dinner, then a romantic evening, and finally, a romantic night.
The food hadn’t been stinted on – great food could always be got during war time if one had connections – and Sasha and Peter (as well as their guests) had had prime rib, potatoes and corn, with huge slices of chocolate cake for dessert.
Peter and Sasha were nothing if not thorough in their characterizations – they had each researched their characters and played their roles throughout the evening.
And now…they walked hand in hand to their room (which did not have a TV, only Bakelite radios, and books, newspapers and magazines of the era).
They made love for a long time, that evening, to the background sound of airplanes taking off in the distance. Both of them knew that they might never see each other again. 38 WASP had already died serving their country, she, Sasha, might be next. As for Peter, he was due to ship out to Italy and who knew when a dogfight might not claim his life.
That was the ambiance that gave a certain soupcon to their lovemaking.
Afterwards, they lay back in bed, listening to a Jack Benny program and cuddling.
“I wonder how many people in the rest of our rooms are making love right now,” Peter said, “In the proper spirit, I mean. Pretending to be in the middle of the war, and this being their last night with their sweetheart. “
“It certainly adds a certain..poignancy…to the lovemaking,” Sasha agreed.
“This was a good idea, Sasha,” Peter said, kissing her lovingly.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Sasha.
They turned off the lights and listened to Jack Benny in the dark, while the constant drone of aircraft provided a counterpoint to the end of the evening.
Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest walked hand in hand through the WASP museum, which was located in the original Hangar One on what had been Avenger Field in Sweetwater, Texas.
In 1941, just after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor and the armed forces of the USA mobilized to go to war, thousands of women wanted to do their part. They were encouraged by the government, who put out propaganda posters for them to go to work in munitions plants, and to join the WAVES and so on. Jackie Cochran, the most famous aviator of her day, wanted the government to use female pilots to ferry planes around the country, freeing up male pilots to go overseas.
Originally she was turned down, and she travelled over to England to fly with the ATA pilots there – which included women. Meanwhile in the USA , Nancy Harkness Love continued to press the military, and finally the WAFS – women’s auxiliary ferry service, was formed. Hearing of this success. Cochran flew back to the States and insisted on a larger program…which would become the WASP – women auxiliary service pilots.
From 1942 to 1944, over 1800 women trained at Avenger Field, and a little over 1,000 women graduated and became ferry pilots. The last class, which graduated in December, 1944, never got to fly, however. By the end of 1944, the Allies knew that the war was won, and they began to make plans to integrate soldiers back into peacetime society. Part of this plan was to get women to give up their jobs and go back to being homemakers, allowing the soldiers to have jobs to go back to.
This included the WASP, who were disbanded right after the last class graduated. They were civilians, and had to pay their own way home, and they and their services to their country were forgotten until the 1970s.
Avengers Field was still in existence, and in 2005 Hangar One was turned into a museum for the WASP. The small town of Sweetwater still had several buildings from that era, as well.
“I’m thinking,” said Sasha.
“Yes, my darling?” asked Peter.
“You know how we’ve always talked about retiring and running a B&B?”
“Yes, but that’s a looooong way in the future,” Peter said.
“Well…why don’t we do it now? I was walking through the town earlier today, and there’s a few shuttered businesses. I was thinking we could buy one, start up a B&B, and do it with a WWII theme. We could put plays on WW II-plays, and have themed events, and capitalize on the current interest in the WASP.”
“That’s a pretty ambitious plan,” commented Peter, “but I like it.”
II.
A Big Band was playing swing music in one corner of the ballroom in the Avenger Field Canteen and Caravan B&B, the new business of Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest.
Everyone in the ballroom was dressed in either WW II era fatigues or clothing. The band was dressed in tuxedos. A professional dance pair were regaling the diners with classic dances of the period. When they took their break, the diners got to their feet and cut the rug.
Peter, dressed as a WWII pilot, and Sasha, dressed as a WASP, did the boogie woogie with the best of them.
Although this was their business, they were having fun with it. They had hired a manager and a variety of staff, whom they let do the work, while they entertained the clientele with their plays, or, as on this occasion, simply pretended to be customers themselves.
This was “the night before shipping out” event, and couples had checked into the B&B to have a romantic dinner, then a romantic evening, and finally, a romantic night.
The food hadn’t been stinted on – great food could always be got during war time if one had connections – and Sasha and Peter (as well as their guests) had had prime rib, potatoes and corn, with huge slices of chocolate cake for dessert.
Peter and Sasha were nothing if not thorough in their characterizations – they had each researched their characters and played their roles throughout the evening.
And now…they walked hand in hand to their room (which did not have a TV, only Bakelite radios, and books, newspapers and magazines of the era).
They made love for a long time, that evening, to the background sound of airplanes taking off in the distance. Both of them knew that they might never see each other again. 38 WASP had already died serving their country, she, Sasha, might be next. As for Peter, he was due to ship out to Italy and who knew when a dogfight might not claim his life.
That was the ambiance that gave a certain soupcon to their lovemaking.
Afterwards, they lay back in bed, listening to a Jack Benny program and cuddling.
“I wonder how many people in the rest of our rooms are making love right now,” Peter said, “In the proper spirit, I mean. Pretending to be in the middle of the war, and this being their last night with their sweetheart. “
“It certainly adds a certain..poignancy…to the lovemaking,” Sasha agreed.
“This was a good idea, Sasha,” Peter said, kissing her lovingly.
“Thank you, my dear,” said Sasha.
They turned off the lights and listened to Jack Benny in the dark, while the constant drone of aircraft provided a counterpoint to the end of the evening.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 30
Black opalIt was time to go to Lightning Ridge, where the opal mines that Jan Janasz and Alain Pretorius supposedly had, were.
Michele had long been interested in opal, particularly black opal, nad Lightning Ridge in New South Wales, is the main source of it.
Most Americans never see the best opal - buyers from Asia purchase it and have it made into jewelry to sell in the Orient.
90% of the opal in the world is ‘light opal’ -- opal with a white background. 8% is black opal, and only 2% is boulder opal.
The town of Coober Pedy in South Australia is a major source of opal. Indeed, the world's largest and most valuable gem opal, “Olympic Australis” was found in August 1956 at the “Eight Mile” opal field in Coober Pedy.
Andamooka in South Australia is a major producer of matrix opal, crystal opal, and black opal, but the main source of black opal is at Lightning Ridge in New South Wales. Black opal has a predominantly dark background (dark-gray to blue-black displaying the play of color). Boulder opal consists of concretions and fracture fillings in a dark siliceous ironstone matrix.
Michele had selected Lightning Ridge as the location for the denouement of her game with Gus Keller. It was very much a "frontier" town, like the old west, except that most of the homes in which people lived were underground.
Lightning Ridge is about 6 km east of the Castlereagh Highway, and has a population of about 2,000 people. It is a flourishing tourist town, however, with plenty of caravan and camping parks, the Diggers' Rest pub (which, according to Michele's info, was in the process of being rebuilt after having recently burned down for the third time) and a bowling club.
Boulder opalIt was there, in that wild-west atmosphere, that Michele would bring her plan to fruition.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 29
I.
Michele Bravo pushed Gus Keller away.
“Sorry, Keller,” she said. “Not in the middle of a job. When it’s over.”
“Sure,” he said shortly.
Damn, damn, damn thought Michele as she resumed her laps. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She’d intended to teach Keller a lesson he’d never forget, not develop feelings for him!
He was a good kisser, she had to give him that.
But he was also a member of the Special Crimes Bureau, a rookie, and someone who thought he could capture her, her, Taran Tula, all by himself.
Well, that was not going to happen. After she finished this little scenario, debacle though it was turning out to be, she would dump him like a bad transmission.
He is a nice kisser, though, she thought as she swam her laps.
But there is no future in our relationship, she thought. He’s on the side of the angels. And while I’m on the side of the angels also, that fact must never become known. Taran Tula must die…Michele Bravo must die…so that I can be free.
II.
Women, thought Gus Keller, stroking through the water with some serious power to alleviate the sexual tension that was emanating from him. They’d been kissing, and it felt so good…and then she’d pulled away from him. She’d looked him in the eyes, and he could tell she wanted him, but she’d said, “Sorry, Keller. Not in the middle of a job. When it’s over.”
Why not in the middle of a job, that’s what he wanted to know. Why not?
Still…she’d left the door open…for after the job.
After…the murder.
If he wanted to make tender, passionate love to Marguerite Zelle, he was going to have to kill someone first.
Damn, thought Keller, as he powered through the water. There’s always something.
Michele Bravo pushed Gus Keller away.
“Sorry, Keller,” she said. “Not in the middle of a job. When it’s over.”
“Sure,” he said shortly.
Damn, damn, damn thought Michele as she resumed her laps. This wasn’t supposed to be happening. She’d intended to teach Keller a lesson he’d never forget, not develop feelings for him!
He was a good kisser, she had to give him that.
But he was also a member of the Special Crimes Bureau, a rookie, and someone who thought he could capture her, her, Taran Tula, all by himself.
Well, that was not going to happen. After she finished this little scenario, debacle though it was turning out to be, she would dump him like a bad transmission.
He is a nice kisser, though, she thought as she swam her laps.
But there is no future in our relationship, she thought. He’s on the side of the angels. And while I’m on the side of the angels also, that fact must never become known. Taran Tula must die…Michele Bravo must die…so that I can be free.
II.
Women, thought Gus Keller, stroking through the water with some serious power to alleviate the sexual tension that was emanating from him. They’d been kissing, and it felt so good…and then she’d pulled away from him. She’d looked him in the eyes, and he could tell she wanted him, but she’d said, “Sorry, Keller. Not in the middle of a job. When it’s over.”
Why not in the middle of a job, that’s what he wanted to know. Why not?
Still…she’d left the door open…for after the job.
After…the murder.
If he wanted to make tender, passionate love to Marguerite Zelle, he was going to have to kill someone first.
Damn, thought Keller, as he powered through the water. There’s always something.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 27
Jan Janasz stood on the balcony above the Olympic-size swimming pool. He had been watching Marguerite Zelle and Mr. Largo swim through the blue water, and now he was watching them drownproofing, just the tops of their heads above water, while they were kissing.
Kissing underwater. Who’d’ve thought of it?
He wondered if they were about to shuck their bathing costumes and actually go at it in the water.
No…no…they were pulling apart….they were resuming their swim.
What a pity.
Janasz sighed. He was not a voyeur…he was a writer. He observed people, he couldn’t help himself. Even when he was having sex, half of his mind was describing his own actions, and those of his bedmate, in his heaad, so that he could write it down for possible use later in one of his plays, or hopefully, a book (of which he was in the process of writing one.)
And even now, as he watched Marguerite Zelle swimming with easy grace through the crystal clear water, admiring her beauty, he was writing it all down in his head…the white swimsuit contrasting against her bronze skin. She wouldn’t be wearing a one-piece, of course, in his story, but rather a bikini, so that he could describe the plunging neckline and her cleavage…and the small of her back..perhaps with the tattoo of a rose swelling up from ….
Janasz took a deep breath.
Get a grip, man, he told himself. You mustn’t think such things of the woman you’re working for. But after this job of work is over, all bets are off.
_________________
Note to my loyal readers: Most of the installments in this "romantic suspense-with-occasional-erotica serial fiction" have averaged 1,000 words or more. For the next week and a half or so, the story will progress in installments of between 200 - 500 words. I'm about to start a cross country road-trip with an elderly, infirm relative, and while I'm hoping it's not going to be the trip from hell...I know it will be. The story will be updated every day, never fear, it just won't progress as fast as usual. The 1000+ word installmetns will resume around October 1.
Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying it.
And please send vibes my way that the trip goes well!
Kissing underwater. Who’d’ve thought of it?
He wondered if they were about to shuck their bathing costumes and actually go at it in the water.
No…no…they were pulling apart….they were resuming their swim.
What a pity.
Janasz sighed. He was not a voyeur…he was a writer. He observed people, he couldn’t help himself. Even when he was having sex, half of his mind was describing his own actions, and those of his bedmate, in his heaad, so that he could write it down for possible use later in one of his plays, or hopefully, a book (of which he was in the process of writing one.)
And even now, as he watched Marguerite Zelle swimming with easy grace through the crystal clear water, admiring her beauty, he was writing it all down in his head…the white swimsuit contrasting against her bronze skin. She wouldn’t be wearing a one-piece, of course, in his story, but rather a bikini, so that he could describe the plunging neckline and her cleavage…and the small of her back..perhaps with the tattoo of a rose swelling up from ….
Janasz took a deep breath.
Get a grip, man, he told himself. You mustn’t think such things of the woman you’re working for. But after this job of work is over, all bets are off.
_________________
Note to my loyal readers: Most of the installments in this "romantic suspense-with-occasional-erotica serial fiction" have averaged 1,000 words or more. For the next week and a half or so, the story will progress in installments of between 200 - 500 words. I'm about to start a cross country road-trip with an elderly, infirm relative, and while I'm hoping it's not going to be the trip from hell...I know it will be. The story will be updated every day, never fear, it just won't progress as fast as usual. The 1000+ word installmetns will resume around October 1.
Thanks for reading, hope you're enjoying it.
And please send vibes my way that the trip goes well!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Chapter 26
As Gus Keller swam in the pool, he was able to take in Michele Bravo’s beauty from many angles. She wore a white one piece that contrasted with her glowing tan, and showed off her long, toned legs with the sculpted thighs and calves of a bicyclist, flat stomach, high, small, perfectly formed breasts, and the sculpted biceps and triceps of a weight trainer.
As he swam beneath her, the image of her body, with the white suit outlined against the bright sun, reminded him of something. Not…Jaws…what….of course, The Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Jeez, thought Keller. How is it that I can remember movies…movies that I must have seen years ago…but I can’t remember my own name?
She was so beautiful…and so cold…talking about killing people as she did…and yet she’d saved his life, and taken care of him so tenderly.
He rose up to swim only a few feet beneath her, and she stared down at him as she swam. She grinned, and must have laughed out loud, because suddenly she stopped and started choking. He surfaced and held her while she coughed.
“Don’t do that to me,” she finally laughed at him as she recovered from her coughing fit.
He was very conscious of her hands resting on his shoulders.
And suddenly her laughter faded and she looked into his eyes. They floated there, gazing at each other….
As he swam beneath her, the image of her body, with the white suit outlined against the bright sun, reminded him of something. Not…Jaws…what….of course, The Creature from the Black Lagoon.
Jeez, thought Keller. How is it that I can remember movies…movies that I must have seen years ago…but I can’t remember my own name?
She was so beautiful…and so cold…talking about killing people as she did…and yet she’d saved his life, and taken care of him so tenderly.
He rose up to swim only a few feet beneath her, and she stared down at him as she swam. She grinned, and must have laughed out loud, because suddenly she stopped and started choking. He surfaced and held her while she coughed.
“Don’t do that to me,” she finally laughed at him as she recovered from her coughing fit.
He was very conscious of her hands resting on his shoulders.
And suddenly her laughter faded and she looked into his eyes. They floated there, gazing at each other….
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 25
1.
When Michele Bravo woke up the next morning, it was to feel Gus Keller cuddled against her back, and his arm was draped over hers. It felt very warm, very comfortable.
She couldn’t possibly be falling for Keller, could she?
No, of course not. She wasn’t responsible for her physical reactions first thing in the morning.
Very slowly, so as to avoid waking him if at all possible, Michele scooched over and got out of bed. She turned back to see if she had waked him, and his eyes were closed and he was breathing regularly.
She went into the bathroom and performed her ablutions. When she returned to the bedroom, she saw that Keller had awakened. Not only that, he was standing in front of the mirror, clad in his underwear, and his eyes were glistening.
Was he crying?
“Something wrong, Keller?” she asked.
“No,” Keller responded, pinching the moisture away from his eyes. “Just…the briefest of stabs of pain through my head when I got up…but it’s disappeared now, and I feel great.”
“Well, as long as it was only a brief stab,” Michele said. “If you’ll get dressed, we’ll go down to breakfast. Then we’ll have a chat with Janasz. He is getting anxious, I told him we’d take care of Pretorius before the week is out.”
“So soon?” said Keller.
“Yes. Problem? I thought you were getting impatient.”
“No problem. Just an observation.”
“Okay. Good. Well, like I said, we’re going to do it sometime this week. Time to get this show on the road.”
II.
When Michele and Keller arrived in the dining room, Janasz and Adams were already there. There was a sideboard lined with covered silver dishes, and the Americans helped themselves to scrambled eggs and toast.
Janasz cleared his throat. “You were quite a hit with Alain the other night, Marguerite,” he said. “He has invited you up to his spread at Lightning Ridge. He wants to show you the opal mines.”
“Very good,” said Michele. “I was hoping he would do so. You two are coming also?”
“Yes – he invited you and “your friend,” as he called Mr. Keller here, and Adams and I go up there frequently, anyway. So we invited ourselves along.”
“Good, this is shaping up nicely then. When can we get started?”
“It’s a long drive. If you’ll pack enough for a week. I’ve got some calls to meet. Shall we leave in two hours?”
“Ten o’clock? No problem.”
Michele and Keller packed up their bags. They did it quickly and efficiently, and after that they were at a loose end.
“Feel like a swim, Keller?” Michele asked.
“Sure.”
III.
Gus Keller had woken up that morning, feeling the warmth of a woman’s body next to his, and his arm draped familiarly over her hers. For a few seconds, he was lost in the pleasure of it. Then, she began to move, and he didn’t want her to know he was awake so he lay unresisting, his eyes closed, until he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing.
Then he opened his eyes and sat up. As he achieved the perpendicular there was a sudden lance of pain through his head, but it disappeared as soon as it came and he felt fine.
There was only one problem.
Keller strode over to the mirror and looked at himself. He still didn’t recognize himself. He still didn’t know who he was. A good night’s sleep hadn’t helped at all.
A wave of despair washed over him. What was he going to do?
“Something wrong, Keller?”
He twisted to look at Taran Tula – aka Marguerite Zelle.
“No,” he said quickly, pinching the moisture away from his eyes. Quick, he thought. Tough guys don’t cry. “Just…the briefest of stabs of pain through my head when I got up…but it’s disappeared now, and I feel great.”
“Well, as long as it was only a brief stab,” she said. “If you’ll get dressed, we’ll go down to breakfast. Then we’ll have a chat with Janasz. He is getting anxious, I told him we’d take care of Pretorius before the week is out.”
Keller’s heart sank. “So soon?” he said.
She stared at him and said briskly. “Yes. Problem? I thought you were getting impatient.”
“No problem,” he said with deliberate casualness. “ Just an observation.”
“Okay. Good,” she said, in her calm, deliberate, matter-of-fact way. “Well, like I said, we’re going to do it sometime this week. Time to get this show on the road.”
She said that last very briskly. Very….determinedly. He felt a little sick.
When they arrived in the dining room, Janasz and Adams were already there. There was a sideboard lined with covered silver dishes. Keller watched Marguerite lift each dish as she searched for suitable foodstuffs, and finally settled for scrambled eggs and toast. He followed her lead.
Janasz coughed. “You were quite a hit with Alain the other night, Marguerite,” he said. “He has invited you up to his spread at Lightning Ridge. He wants to show you the opal mines.”
Lightning Ridge. Where the hell was that?
But Marguerite Zelle said calmly, “Very good. I was hoping he would do so. You two are coming also?”
“Yes – he invited you and “your friend,” as he called Mr. Keller here, and Adams and I go up there frequently, anyway. So we invited ourselves along.”
Her friend. Her friend. Memory came flooding back. Not the memory of who he was, unfortunately, but the memory of what had gone on last night, before he’d had to ditch the party and go upstairs with a splitting headache. She…Zelle, had been practically climbing into Pretorius’ lap, and he had been enjoying it, as who wouldn’t?
But Marguerite was still talking.
“Good, this is shaping up nicely then. When can we get started?”
“It’s a long drive. If you’ll pack enough for a week. I’ve got some calls to meet. Shall we leave in two hours?”
“Ten o’clock? No problem.”
Keller followed Marguerite back up to their room. It didn’t take them long to pack at all.
Then, she turned to him. “Feel like a swim, Keller?” she asked.
Oh, yes. “Sure,” he said.
When Michele Bravo woke up the next morning, it was to feel Gus Keller cuddled against her back, and his arm was draped over hers. It felt very warm, very comfortable.
She couldn’t possibly be falling for Keller, could she?
No, of course not. She wasn’t responsible for her physical reactions first thing in the morning.
Very slowly, so as to avoid waking him if at all possible, Michele scooched over and got out of bed. She turned back to see if she had waked him, and his eyes were closed and he was breathing regularly.
She went into the bathroom and performed her ablutions. When she returned to the bedroom, she saw that Keller had awakened. Not only that, he was standing in front of the mirror, clad in his underwear, and his eyes were glistening.
Was he crying?
“Something wrong, Keller?” she asked.
“No,” Keller responded, pinching the moisture away from his eyes. “Just…the briefest of stabs of pain through my head when I got up…but it’s disappeared now, and I feel great.”
“Well, as long as it was only a brief stab,” Michele said. “If you’ll get dressed, we’ll go down to breakfast. Then we’ll have a chat with Janasz. He is getting anxious, I told him we’d take care of Pretorius before the week is out.”
“So soon?” said Keller.
“Yes. Problem? I thought you were getting impatient.”
“No problem. Just an observation.”
“Okay. Good. Well, like I said, we’re going to do it sometime this week. Time to get this show on the road.”
II.
When Michele and Keller arrived in the dining room, Janasz and Adams were already there. There was a sideboard lined with covered silver dishes, and the Americans helped themselves to scrambled eggs and toast.
Janasz cleared his throat. “You were quite a hit with Alain the other night, Marguerite,” he said. “He has invited you up to his spread at Lightning Ridge. He wants to show you the opal mines.”
“Very good,” said Michele. “I was hoping he would do so. You two are coming also?”
“Yes – he invited you and “your friend,” as he called Mr. Keller here, and Adams and I go up there frequently, anyway. So we invited ourselves along.”
“Good, this is shaping up nicely then. When can we get started?”
“It’s a long drive. If you’ll pack enough for a week. I’ve got some calls to meet. Shall we leave in two hours?”
“Ten o’clock? No problem.”
Michele and Keller packed up their bags. They did it quickly and efficiently, and after that they were at a loose end.
“Feel like a swim, Keller?” Michele asked.
“Sure.”
III.
Gus Keller had woken up that morning, feeling the warmth of a woman’s body next to his, and his arm draped familiarly over her hers. For a few seconds, he was lost in the pleasure of it. Then, she began to move, and he didn’t want her to know he was awake so he lay unresisting, his eyes closed, until he heard the sound of the bathroom door closing.
Then he opened his eyes and sat up. As he achieved the perpendicular there was a sudden lance of pain through his head, but it disappeared as soon as it came and he felt fine.
There was only one problem.
Keller strode over to the mirror and looked at himself. He still didn’t recognize himself. He still didn’t know who he was. A good night’s sleep hadn’t helped at all.
A wave of despair washed over him. What was he going to do?
“Something wrong, Keller?”
He twisted to look at Taran Tula – aka Marguerite Zelle.
“No,” he said quickly, pinching the moisture away from his eyes. Quick, he thought. Tough guys don’t cry. “Just…the briefest of stabs of pain through my head when I got up…but it’s disappeared now, and I feel great.”
“Well, as long as it was only a brief stab,” she said. “If you’ll get dressed, we’ll go down to breakfast. Then we’ll have a chat with Janasz. He is getting anxious, I told him we’d take care of Pretorius before the week is out.”
Keller’s heart sank. “So soon?” he said.
She stared at him and said briskly. “Yes. Problem? I thought you were getting impatient.”
“No problem,” he said with deliberate casualness. “ Just an observation.”
“Okay. Good,” she said, in her calm, deliberate, matter-of-fact way. “Well, like I said, we’re going to do it sometime this week. Time to get this show on the road.”
She said that last very briskly. Very….determinedly. He felt a little sick.
When they arrived in the dining room, Janasz and Adams were already there. There was a sideboard lined with covered silver dishes. Keller watched Marguerite lift each dish as she searched for suitable foodstuffs, and finally settled for scrambled eggs and toast. He followed her lead.
Janasz coughed. “You were quite a hit with Alain the other night, Marguerite,” he said. “He has invited you up to his spread at Lightning Ridge. He wants to show you the opal mines.”
Lightning Ridge. Where the hell was that?
But Marguerite Zelle said calmly, “Very good. I was hoping he would do so. You two are coming also?”
“Yes – he invited you and “your friend,” as he called Mr. Keller here, and Adams and I go up there frequently, anyway. So we invited ourselves along.”
Her friend. Her friend. Memory came flooding back. Not the memory of who he was, unfortunately, but the memory of what had gone on last night, before he’d had to ditch the party and go upstairs with a splitting headache. She…Zelle, had been practically climbing into Pretorius’ lap, and he had been enjoying it, as who wouldn’t?
But Marguerite was still talking.
“Good, this is shaping up nicely then. When can we get started?”
“It’s a long drive. If you’ll pack enough for a week. I’ve got some calls to meet. Shall we leave in two hours?”
“Ten o’clock? No problem.”
Keller followed Marguerite back up to their room. It didn’t take them long to pack at all.
Then, she turned to him. “Feel like a swim, Keller?” she asked.
Oh, yes. “Sure,” he said.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
Erotica By Bravo: Dighton and Forrest Do Christmas
Michele Bravo had an erotica story to write for her readers, and for some reason, even though Christmas was a little over two months away, she decided to make it a Christmas story. Perhaps because she was sweltering in 90 degree heat and the news on the telly had been extremely depressing. She hoped that her readers would find that a little snow and Christmas cheer would not come amiss.
Happiness Is Whatever You Want it to Be
Large snowflakes floated down from the dark sky, falling onto the shoulders of Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest as they walked down a sidewalk, holding hands.
The evening was warm, so much so that the snowflakes were melting on the sidewalk, but gathered in pristine whiteness on the lawns and on the grass strips that separated the sidewalk from the street.
It was December, and as was their tradition, they had attended a performance of A Christmas Carol at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Dighton and Forrest had first met in Minneapolis five years ago, when Sasha had been an ex-collegiate fencer turned actress, and Dighton had been the fight choreographer and lead actor in a play in which she had appeared [the story of their courtship can be found at: En Garde: Seduction (Erotica By Bravo)
]
They walked in silence along the sidewalk to their car, occasionally moving closer to each other to bump arms and exchange glances and smiles.
They reached their destination, the Garland Restaurant, and walked in. Although the Garland was a hit with the post-theatre crowd, it was large enough to be able to seat them all with no waiting. The restaurant specialized in world-wide cuisine, serving the signature meals of the Orient -- Japan, China, and Thailand; Europe – England, France and Spain, and the Americas – American and Mexican.
Dighton chose sweet and sour chicken served in Thai style, while Sasha elected to have Shepherd’s Pie. While they ate, they held hands…that was the joy of the dishes they’d chosen – only a fork was needed, leaving one hand free for caressing.
“I love this Shepherd’s Pie,” Sasha murmured. “Reminds me of the first time I was in England - London of course. I had this at the Heathrow Hotel, and loved it. My mom used to try to make it for me over the years, but she could never get the ingredients right. It was good, of course, her version, but it never had that je ne sais quois that you get from the kind made in England.”
“I loved London and the West End,” Peter said. “My tradition was Pizza Hut. My brother was stationed over there for some years, up at RAF Upper Heyford. So each year I’d visit him and we’d go down to London and catch some plays in the West End. And we’d always have a pizza at Pizza Hut, and Garlic cheese bread. It was our traditional pre-theatre meal.”
After they’d finished their meal, Peter and Sasha started the walk back to their car. The snow had stopped, and the full moon cast a silver glow on the snow.
Peter sang, in a pleasant baritone, just low enough so that only Sasha could hear:
“They say happiness is a thing you can't see
A thing you can't touch “
Sasha joined in:
“I disagree
Happiness is standing beside me
I can see him
He can see me
Happiness is whatever you want it to be
Happiness is a high hill
Will I find it?
Yes, I will
Happiness is a tall tree
Can I climb it?
Watch and see “
Peter leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he continued the song:
“They say happiness is the folly of fools
Pity poor me
One of the fools
Happiness is smiling upon me
Walking my way
Sharing my day “
Then they both sang together:
“Happiness is whatever you want it to be “
Sasha sang out in her bell-like voice
“Happiness is a bright star
Are we happy? “
Peter smiled,
“Yes, we are “
Sasha hugged his arm tightly.
“Happiness is a clear sky “
Peter joined her in the rest of the verses”
“Give me wings and let me fly
Let me fly
For happiness is whatever you want it to be
Yes, happiness is whatever you want it to be “
“I loved that movie,” Sasha said. “Truth to tell, Scrooge is my favorite version of A Christmas Carol, and Albert Finney is my favorite Scrooge.”
“Kenneth More was the best Ghost of Christmas Present,” Peter agreed, “and Edith Evans was the best Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“I like his song, too,” said Sasha. “Shall we sing it?”
“Too late,” said Peter, “here’s the car. Well, we can serenade ourselves on the way to the hotel.”
And they did, singing the Ghost of Christmas Present’s song, “I like life,” at the top of their lungs.
After that, Peter put a CD of Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas Carols in the CD player. They had time to listen to only a couple of tracks before they arrived at their hotel, where they were staying while carrying out their Christmas tradition.
Their hotel room had a mini-Fridge. Sasha went to it and pulled out a bottle of wine and two chilled wine glasses, and some chocolate truffles.
They left the TV off, this was their alone time, and being actors they recited sonnets and love poems to each other. The goal of the game was that Sasha – or as it might be, Peter – would quote one stanza of the poem or sonnet, and then Peter, or, as it might be, Sasha, would have to recite the next stanza, and so on. If one of them couldn’t deliver the correct stanza, he – or she – would take a drink of wine, and the other one would get to eat a truffle.
Finally, wine drunk and truffles devoured, they undressed and went to bed. They entwined together but didn’t make love, merely snuggling up to each other and feeling the warmth and the pleasure in each other’s company.
Happiness Is Whatever You Want it to Be
Large snowflakes floated down from the dark sky, falling onto the shoulders of Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest as they walked down a sidewalk, holding hands.
The evening was warm, so much so that the snowflakes were melting on the sidewalk, but gathered in pristine whiteness on the lawns and on the grass strips that separated the sidewalk from the street.
It was December, and as was their tradition, they had attended a performance of A Christmas Carol at the Guthrie Theater in Minneapolis, Minnesota. Dighton and Forrest had first met in Minneapolis five years ago, when Sasha had been an ex-collegiate fencer turned actress, and Dighton had been the fight choreographer and lead actor in a play in which she had appeared [the story of their courtship can be found at: En Garde: Seduction (Erotica By Bravo)
]
They walked in silence along the sidewalk to their car, occasionally moving closer to each other to bump arms and exchange glances and smiles.
They reached their destination, the Garland Restaurant, and walked in. Although the Garland was a hit with the post-theatre crowd, it was large enough to be able to seat them all with no waiting. The restaurant specialized in world-wide cuisine, serving the signature meals of the Orient -- Japan, China, and Thailand; Europe – England, France and Spain, and the Americas – American and Mexican.
Dighton chose sweet and sour chicken served in Thai style, while Sasha elected to have Shepherd’s Pie. While they ate, they held hands…that was the joy of the dishes they’d chosen – only a fork was needed, leaving one hand free for caressing.
“I love this Shepherd’s Pie,” Sasha murmured. “Reminds me of the first time I was in England - London of course. I had this at the Heathrow Hotel, and loved it. My mom used to try to make it for me over the years, but she could never get the ingredients right. It was good, of course, her version, but it never had that je ne sais quois that you get from the kind made in England.”
“I loved London and the West End,” Peter said. “My tradition was Pizza Hut. My brother was stationed over there for some years, up at RAF Upper Heyford. So each year I’d visit him and we’d go down to London and catch some plays in the West End. And we’d always have a pizza at Pizza Hut, and Garlic cheese bread. It was our traditional pre-theatre meal.”
After they’d finished their meal, Peter and Sasha started the walk back to their car. The snow had stopped, and the full moon cast a silver glow on the snow.
Peter sang, in a pleasant baritone, just low enough so that only Sasha could hear:
“They say happiness is a thing you can't see
A thing you can't touch “
Sasha joined in:
“I disagree
Happiness is standing beside me
I can see him
He can see me
Happiness is whatever you want it to be
Happiness is a high hill
Will I find it?
Yes, I will
Happiness is a tall tree
Can I climb it?
Watch and see “
Peter leaned over and kissed her cheek. Then he continued the song:
“They say happiness is the folly of fools
Pity poor me
One of the fools
Happiness is smiling upon me
Walking my way
Sharing my day “
Then they both sang together:
“Happiness is whatever you want it to be “
Sasha sang out in her bell-like voice
“Happiness is a bright star
Are we happy? “
Peter smiled,
“Yes, we are “
Sasha hugged his arm tightly.
“Happiness is a clear sky “
Peter joined her in the rest of the verses”
“Give me wings and let me fly
Let me fly
For happiness is whatever you want it to be
Yes, happiness is whatever you want it to be “
“I loved that movie,” Sasha said. “Truth to tell, Scrooge is my favorite version of A Christmas Carol, and Albert Finney is my favorite Scrooge.”
“Kenneth More was the best Ghost of Christmas Present,” Peter agreed, “and Edith Evans was the best Ghost of Christmas Past.”
“I like his song, too,” said Sasha. “Shall we sing it?”
“Too late,” said Peter, “here’s the car. Well, we can serenade ourselves on the way to the hotel.”
And they did, singing the Ghost of Christmas Present’s song, “I like life,” at the top of their lungs.
After that, Peter put a CD of Mannheim Steamroller’s Christmas Carols in the CD player. They had time to listen to only a couple of tracks before they arrived at their hotel, where they were staying while carrying out their Christmas tradition.
Their hotel room had a mini-Fridge. Sasha went to it and pulled out a bottle of wine and two chilled wine glasses, and some chocolate truffles.
They left the TV off, this was their alone time, and being actors they recited sonnets and love poems to each other. The goal of the game was that Sasha – or as it might be, Peter – would quote one stanza of the poem or sonnet, and then Peter, or, as it might be, Sasha, would have to recite the next stanza, and so on. If one of them couldn’t deliver the correct stanza, he – or she – would take a drink of wine, and the other one would get to eat a truffle.
Finally, wine drunk and truffles devoured, they undressed and went to bed. They entwined together but didn’t make love, merely snuggling up to each other and feeling the warmth and the pleasure in each other’s company.
Monday, September 13, 2010
From Sexy Underwater Stories: Anton and the Mermaid
This is a guest story, to introduce Michele Bravo's new blog, Sexy Underwater Stories. Like Erotica by Bravo, it is a serial fiction blog, featuring three beatiful young sisters, scuba divers who travel the world having adventures, erotic and otherwise. In addition, one of them is an aspiring writer, and it is one of her stories that is shared below.
If you like this story, please subscribe to Sexy Underwater Stories
(If the link doesn't work, please visit the Amazon.com webpage, type in Sexy Underwater Stories, and subscribe from there.)
Anton and the Mermaid
If you like this story, please subscribe to Sexy Underwater Stories
(If the link doesn't work, please visit the Amazon.com webpage, type in Sexy Underwater Stories, and subscribe from there.)
Anton and the Mermaid
Anton Weaver stood on the prow of his ship, gazing out into the sapphire blue water. He was anchored just off the Bimini Road, an underwater rock formation that was thousands of years old and which many people thought was man-made, and proved that here…here at Bimini….Atlantis had once existed.
Out of the corner of his eye he saw a silvery shape break the surface…it was a dolphin. He watched the creature playing exuberantly for a few minutes, and felt a pang at his heart.
Some people watched the birds and wished they could fly through the air, *sans wings, *he had watched mammals swimming throughout the depths, and wished he could do the same thing.
But no, he was doomed to always be separated by a thin sheet of neoprene, a face mask, and a heavy scuba tank on his back.
Not today, though. Today he’d be skin diving…and when he said skin diving he meant skin-diving. With only flippers, a knife strapped to his inner calf, and a pair of goggles over his eyes, with a snorkel attached to them, Anton stepped to the side of his boat and dove in.
He dove down, down, the fifteen feet to the ocean floor, and the huge rectangular rocks that comprised the Bimini Road.
As he had done many times before, he followed the rocks from their beginning to their ending, a distance of only about half a mile, surfacing only a couple of times.
Anton had been diving all his life, and had wonderful breath control. He could stay underwater, even exerting himself as he was, for over three minutes.
He swam close to the ocean floor, reaching down now and then to touch the algae-covered rocks, loving the feeling of the rough stone on his fingertips. He was touching history. He was touching an edifice that was thousands of years old.
Anton continued to swim along the Road. He’d swam along it dozens of times over the years, and knew when it was supposed to end.
This time…it wasn’t ending. He was still swimming…and now the rocks weren’t covered with algae but were unsullied, clean stone. How was this possible?
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a silver movement, and paused to take a look at the nearby dolphin.
Only…it wasn’t a dolphin.
It was a woman.
A woman who, like him, was skin-diving…in the nude.
Her hair curled around her beautiful face like a nimbus. Her pale skin positively glowed. Her breasts…her breasts were perfect, small, round globes that bobbed gently. Her belly was flat, then her hips flared out to long, long legs…and at the end of each foot…some weird kind of flipper…
Anton’s eyes had ran down the woman’s body, even as “something’s wrong here” resonated in him. He looked up again. She wasn’t wearing anything over her eyes, yet she seemed to be able to see him perfectly. And her lips…she was pursing her lips like she wanted to kiss him…and then unpursing them…as if she were breathing underwater…
She remained motionless, staring at him. Her arms were spread out to her sides, and she was making various gestures with her hands to maintain her position against the current.
Anton kicked his feet just a couple of times, so that he glided toward her slowly.
She waited for him.
He came right up to her, and she put out her hands to stop his forward progress, to bring him from a horizontal, swimming position to a vertical one. She stared deeply into his eyes.
Her eyes…a deep green, with a large pupil…eyes that you could get lost in.
And those lips…
Anton reached out and grasped her biceps, drawing him closer to her. He inclined his head forward, and placed his lips upon hers.
She kissed him back, and he opened his mouth to receive her tongue. But incredibly, instead of her tongue it was air that she breathed into him.
He pushed her away from him, feeling his throat working. He was choking…then suddenly…he wasn’t. He was breathing. *Breathing underwater.
She had been staring at him, and now nodded, as if he had just passed a test. She held out her hand to him. He swum forward and took it. She turned and pulled on his hand, placing it on her shoulder. He brought up his other hand to her other shoulder, and then suddenly she was swimming, faster than he would have thought possible.
Her body was undulating, like a dolphin’s, and he was riding on her back as she was cutting through the water at an incredible speed. And he was able to breathe…
And then suddenly she twisted underneath him, until suddenly she was swimming while *facing him, and her body was undulating and her belly was quite close to his cock, so close that if only he had some power of his own he could have entered her there and then. He found he wanted to, desperately.
She started slowing down, her body continuing to undulate, her firm breasts looking so lovely in the clear water, her belly, her legs, and that dark patch between her legs that indicated she was a woman ready for love…
Now…now…they had slowed down enough so that he was no longer feeling overpowered by the force of the water, he let his hands slide down from her shoulders to her waist and used them to steady her while he entered her.
Her body arced as she felt him enter her, and then she wrapped her legs around his waist.
They hovered there, neutrally buoyant, while Anton thrust himself into her again and again…meantime staring deep into those green eyes…eyes that seemed to have the wisdom of the world in them… and her face, her beautiful face, her lips continuing to purse and unpurse…he abandoned his grip on her waist and grasped her face, he so wanted to kiss her again.
He kissed her, and she kissed him back, and he could feel himself coming, and it was an incredible feeling, as the pleasure jolted through him…
Then he was spent, and he floated there, gazing at her, gazing into those fathomless eyes.
Then, suddenly, he was choking again, and she hooked a hand under his arm and raised him to the surface.
He bobbed there, sucking in deep breaths of air. Then, desperately, he began looking around for her. Where had she gone?
He jackknifed down into the water, and there she was. She came forward, kissed him once, gently, then she shoved him away, turned around and began swimming away from him with that undulating movement.
And all he could do was watch her swim out of his life…
Saturday, September 11, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 24
I.
Gus Keller was dreaming. In his dream, he was standing in darkness in the bedroom. Taran Tula…the beautiful Taran Tula whom he didn’t remember but who must be his girl… walked into the bedroom, and stared at him.
He grabbed her by the biceps, and forced her backward onto the bed. She grasped his own arms, and exerted her strength to prevent him from forcing her backward, but she never said a word and she was smiling as she resisted him.
She lay flat on the bed, staring up at him, pressing against his chest with both her hands. He grasped her wrists, one in each of his hands, and forced them back over her head. She bucked her hips beneath him, but he merely leaned forward and kissed her, hard, upon the lips.
She resisted at first, then her lips parted and he stuck his tongue in her mouth, entwining it with her own tongue.
Still holding her by the wrists, Gus pulled her up further onto the bed, Leaning forward, he used his knees to spread her legs apart, and although at one point in this scenario they’d both been wearing clothes, now they were conveniently naked.
Tula bucked underneath him again, but he just pressed himself against her, keeping her down, as he entered her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, so that he could get deeper into her, and he maneuvered his hips in long, deep thrusts into her.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Taran moaned…with pleasure.
Keller pressed his body down onto hers even further, at the same time biting gently on her neck, on her shoulders, on her breasts…
He was cumming, he was cumming…. Then, suddenly, Taran’s eyes opened wide and with a sudden burst of strength she shoved him off of her. Then she sat up, laughing at him.
II.
Keller sat up in bed, angry, for reasons that he didn’t know. Perhaps because his head was killing him, perhaps because he was feeling used and abused. Perhaps because he still couldn’t remember who he was, but his girl, his girl, had been downstairs flirting with some guy….and had now entered the room and stood there, sneering at him, laughing at him.
“Sorry,” she said, grinning. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” he asked. His mouth felt dry…he was dying for a drink.
“Just gone midnight. The party was a complete success.”
The party. Where she was practically in that guy’s pants. “I just bet,” he said, gruffly.
She looked at him, smirking. “I saw you came up early.” She said. “Need some aspirin?”
“No, I’m feeling fine. So, the party. You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
She’d been all over that Alain Pretorius. All over him.
“Yes,” she said with a smirk. “Pretorious is a very charming man.”
Charming, she called it. “Sexy too, eh?” he said provocatively.
“Yes, very sexy,” she replied, laughing. Then, “Is there something you want to say, Keller?”
“I just didn’t like the way you were hanging all over him, that’s all,” he said, defiantly. “I’m surprised you ended up here instead of in his bedroom.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “He’s not staying in the house,” she said…regretfully.
Keller gritted his teeth.
But then she went on. “Look, Keller, I told you I was going to vamp Pretorius, and I did. It was all part of the job. But if it will make you feel any better, let’s proceed to the next part of the job. Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
He stared at her for several seconds, blinking, face expressionless.
Had she just said, so very calmly, “Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
They were going to kill Pretorius. He and she…cold blooded assassins.
“Well?” she demanded.
“My head is hurting,” Keller said fretfully. “Can I get a couple of aspirin?”
“Of course.” Keller watched her walk into the bathroom. She returned with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
He took them and downed them quickly.
He was a cold-blooded killer…and she hadn’t been cheating on him. He felt a little sick and a little elated at the same time.
“Sorry to have been such a bear,” he said. “I guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Not to worry.” She said, smiling her gorgeous smile at him. “Now, maybe you’d better take off those clothes and…”
Hope springs eternal. “Is that an invitation?” Keller asked.
“You are feeling better,” she laughed.
But he was doomed to disappointment.
“I want you to sleep, Keller. I need you at full strength tomorrow. So just take off your clothes and go back to bed.“
“It’s easier to sleep with a warm body next to mine,” he said, trying to put persuasion into his voice.
“I shall take a shower and change into my jimjams, and then I will come to bed. To sleep.”
Ooh, baby. “You’re the boss,” he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
She went into the bathroom, while he took off all his clothes. He hesitated…then slipped out of his underwear, too. Then he lay back in bed. The pills were starting to help….
He never knew when Taran Tula re-entered the room, and climbed into the bed beside him. He was out like a light.
Gus Keller was dreaming. In his dream, he was standing in darkness in the bedroom. Taran Tula…the beautiful Taran Tula whom he didn’t remember but who must be his girl… walked into the bedroom, and stared at him.
He grabbed her by the biceps, and forced her backward onto the bed. She grasped his own arms, and exerted her strength to prevent him from forcing her backward, but she never said a word and she was smiling as she resisted him.
She lay flat on the bed, staring up at him, pressing against his chest with both her hands. He grasped her wrists, one in each of his hands, and forced them back over her head. She bucked her hips beneath him, but he merely leaned forward and kissed her, hard, upon the lips.
She resisted at first, then her lips parted and he stuck his tongue in her mouth, entwining it with her own tongue.
Still holding her by the wrists, Gus pulled her up further onto the bed, Leaning forward, he used his knees to spread her legs apart, and although at one point in this scenario they’d both been wearing clothes, now they were conveniently naked.
Tula bucked underneath him again, but he just pressed himself against her, keeping her down, as he entered her.
She wrapped her legs around his waist, so that he could get deeper into her, and he maneuvered his hips in long, deep thrusts into her.
“Ah, ah, ah,” Taran moaned…with pleasure.
Keller pressed his body down onto hers even further, at the same time biting gently on her neck, on her shoulders, on her breasts…
He was cumming, he was cumming…. Then, suddenly, Taran’s eyes opened wide and with a sudden burst of strength she shoved him off of her. Then she sat up, laughing at him.
II.
Keller sat up in bed, angry, for reasons that he didn’t know. Perhaps because his head was killing him, perhaps because he was feeling used and abused. Perhaps because he still couldn’t remember who he was, but his girl, his girl, had been downstairs flirting with some guy….and had now entered the room and stood there, sneering at him, laughing at him.
“Sorry,” she said, grinning. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” he asked. His mouth felt dry…he was dying for a drink.
“Just gone midnight. The party was a complete success.”
The party. Where she was practically in that guy’s pants. “I just bet,” he said, gruffly.
She looked at him, smirking. “I saw you came up early.” She said. “Need some aspirin?”
“No, I’m feeling fine. So, the party. You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
She’d been all over that Alain Pretorius. All over him.
“Yes,” she said with a smirk. “Pretorious is a very charming man.”
Charming, she called it. “Sexy too, eh?” he said provocatively.
“Yes, very sexy,” she replied, laughing. Then, “Is there something you want to say, Keller?”
“I just didn’t like the way you were hanging all over him, that’s all,” he said, defiantly. “I’m surprised you ended up here instead of in his bedroom.”
She drew herself up to her full height. “He’s not staying in the house,” she said…regretfully.
Keller gritted his teeth.
But then she went on. “Look, Keller, I told you I was going to vamp Pretorius, and I did. It was all part of the job. But if it will make you feel any better, let’s proceed to the next part of the job. Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
He stared at her for several seconds, blinking, face expressionless.
Had she just said, so very calmly, “Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
They were going to kill Pretorius. He and she…cold blooded assassins.
“Well?” she demanded.
“My head is hurting,” Keller said fretfully. “Can I get a couple of aspirin?”
“Of course.” Keller watched her walk into the bathroom. She returned with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
He took them and downed them quickly.
He was a cold-blooded killer…and she hadn’t been cheating on him. He felt a little sick and a little elated at the same time.
“Sorry to have been such a bear,” he said. “I guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Not to worry.” She said, smiling her gorgeous smile at him. “Now, maybe you’d better take off those clothes and…”
Hope springs eternal. “Is that an invitation?” Keller asked.
“You are feeling better,” she laughed.
But he was doomed to disappointment.
“I want you to sleep, Keller. I need you at full strength tomorrow. So just take off your clothes and go back to bed.“
“It’s easier to sleep with a warm body next to mine,” he said, trying to put persuasion into his voice.
“I shall take a shower and change into my jimjams, and then I will come to bed. To sleep.”
Ooh, baby. “You’re the boss,” he said, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
She went into the bathroom, while he took off all his clothes. He hesitated…then slipped out of his underwear, too. Then he lay back in bed. The pills were starting to help….
He never knew when Taran Tula re-entered the room, and climbed into the bed beside him. He was out like a light.
Wednesday, September 8, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 23
I.
Michele Bravo tore herself from Tiny’s side. She had enjoyed the last three hours immensely. Tiny had been witty, charming, and extremely knowledgeable about all aspects of life in Australia.
He’d also been totally immersed in her, paying attention to no one else, making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. She enjoyed the experience, even though she recognized the technique. He’d been doing his best to seduce her, and she’d played along with him, knowing that he knew that she knew what he was trying to do.
At one point he’d murmured, “Your chap’s gone upstairs.”
“Damn,” said Michele. “I knew he wasn’t feeling well. I should have postponed this party until tomorrow.”
“Shall we call it off?”
“No, no, Jan and I had discussed this earlier. The show goes on. Now, you were telling me about Lightning Ridge.”
And Tiny went back to telling her about Lightning Ridge.
II.
Michele entered her bedroom, flicking on the light. She stopped short – Gus Keller was lying face down on *her bed.
Damn. Well, she’d just go spend the night in * his room.
Before she could turn off the light, Keller had rolled over and opened his eyes. On seeing her, he sat up.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” he asked thickly.
“Just gone midnight. The party was a complete success.”
“I just bet,” said Keller, gruffly.
Michele stared at him. She didn’t like his tone. Well, she’d have to excuse him; his head must still hurt.
“I saw you came up early. Need some aspirin?”
“No, I’m feeling fine. So, the party. You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
“Yes, Pretorious is a very charming man.”
“Sexy too, eh?”
“Yes, very sexy,” Michele snapped, growing more annoyed with his tone. What was going on here, what was he driving at?
“Is there something you want to say, Keller?” she demanded.
“I just didn’t like the way you were hanging all over him, that’s all,” he said. “I’m surprised you ended up here instead of in his bedroom.”
“He’s not staying in the house,” Michele retorted.
Jeez, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was jealous. Which was ridiculous, on so many levels. But…kind of interesting, too.
“Look, Keller,” she said placatingly. “I told you I was going to vamp Pretorius, and I did. It was all part of the job. But if it will make you feel any better, let’s proceed to the next part of the job. Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
He stared at her for several seconds, blinking, face expresssionless.
“Well?” she demanded.
“My head is hurting,” he said fretfully. “Can I get a couple of aspirin?”
“Of course.” She walked into the bathroom and came out with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
Keller took them and downed them quickly.
“Sorry to have been such a bear,” he said. “ I guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Not to worry. Now, maybe you’d better take off those clothes and…”
“Is that an invitation?” Keller asked.
“You are feeling better,” Michele laughed. And you’re being much more forward than you’ve ever been before. That knock on the head seems to have changed your personality. I kind of like it…but not tonight.
“I want you to sleep, Keller. I need you at full strength tomorrow. So just take off your clothes and go back to bed.“
“It’s easier to sleep with a warm body next to mine.”
“I shall take a shower and change into my jimjams, and then I will come to bed. To sleep.”
“You’re the boss,” said Keller, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
Michele left him to his task while she went into the bathroom – locking the door behind her. She took a long, hot shower, then changed, as she had promised, into her pajamas – for she wore pajamas rather than nightgowns – and returned to the bedroom.
Keller was asleep once more.
Michele turned out the light, then joined him on the bed. She was very aware of the warmth of his body next to hers as she drifted off to sleep.
Michele Bravo tore herself from Tiny’s side. She had enjoyed the last three hours immensely. Tiny had been witty, charming, and extremely knowledgeable about all aspects of life in Australia.
He’d also been totally immersed in her, paying attention to no one else, making her feel as if she were the only woman in the world. She enjoyed the experience, even though she recognized the technique. He’d been doing his best to seduce her, and she’d played along with him, knowing that he knew that she knew what he was trying to do.
At one point he’d murmured, “Your chap’s gone upstairs.”
“Damn,” said Michele. “I knew he wasn’t feeling well. I should have postponed this party until tomorrow.”
“Shall we call it off?”
“No, no, Jan and I had discussed this earlier. The show goes on. Now, you were telling me about Lightning Ridge.”
And Tiny went back to telling her about Lightning Ridge.
II.
Michele entered her bedroom, flicking on the light. She stopped short – Gus Keller was lying face down on *her bed.
Damn. Well, she’d just go spend the night in * his room.
Before she could turn off the light, Keller had rolled over and opened his eyes. On seeing her, he sat up.
“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”
“What time is it?” he asked thickly.
“Just gone midnight. The party was a complete success.”
“I just bet,” said Keller, gruffly.
Michele stared at him. She didn’t like his tone. Well, she’d have to excuse him; his head must still hurt.
“I saw you came up early. Need some aspirin?”
“No, I’m feeling fine. So, the party. You sure looked like you were enjoying yourself.”
“Yes, Pretorious is a very charming man.”
“Sexy too, eh?”
“Yes, very sexy,” Michele snapped, growing more annoyed with his tone. What was going on here, what was he driving at?
“Is there something you want to say, Keller?” she demanded.
“I just didn’t like the way you were hanging all over him, that’s all,” he said. “I’m surprised you ended up here instead of in his bedroom.”
“He’s not staying in the house,” Michele retorted.
Jeez, if she didn’t know any better, she’d say he was jealous. Which was ridiculous, on so many levels. But…kind of interesting, too.
“Look, Keller,” she said placatingly. “I told you I was going to vamp Pretorius, and I did. It was all part of the job. But if it will make you feel any better, let’s proceed to the next part of the job. Shall we discuss how we’re going to kill him?”
He stared at her for several seconds, blinking, face expresssionless.
“Well?” she demanded.
“My head is hurting,” he said fretfully. “Can I get a couple of aspirin?”
“Of course.” She walked into the bathroom and came out with a couple of pills and a glass of water.
Keller took them and downed them quickly.
“Sorry to have been such a bear,” he said. “ I guess I woke up on the wrong side of the bed.”
“Not to worry. Now, maybe you’d better take off those clothes and…”
“Is that an invitation?” Keller asked.
“You are feeling better,” Michele laughed. And you’re being much more forward than you’ve ever been before. That knock on the head seems to have changed your personality. I kind of like it…but not tonight.
“I want you to sleep, Keller. I need you at full strength tomorrow. So just take off your clothes and go back to bed.“
“It’s easier to sleep with a warm body next to mine.”
“I shall take a shower and change into my jimjams, and then I will come to bed. To sleep.”
“You’re the boss,” said Keller, beginning to unbutton his shirt.
Michele left him to his task while she went into the bathroom – locking the door behind her. She took a long, hot shower, then changed, as she had promised, into her pajamas – for she wore pajamas rather than nightgowns – and returned to the bedroom.
Keller was asleep once more.
Michele turned out the light, then joined him on the bed. She was very aware of the warmth of his body next to hers as she drifted off to sleep.
Saturday, September 4, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 22
Don't forget to read: En Garde: Seduction (Erotica By Bravo)
, by Michele Bravo. Tells you all you need to know about how her fictional characters, Dighton & Forrest, met.
I.
That evening, the company of Jan Janasz’s Actor’s Theatre gathered together at the house on the cliff.
This company consisted of some twenty individuals, consisting of costumiers, set designers and dressers, lighting men, sound men as well as a few actors, enjoyed themselves immensely, scarfing down the free food and wine.
They could – and did -- discuss anything they wanted amongst themselves. Their only job was, if spoken to by the woman, Marguerite Zelle or the American, Mr. Largo, to be able to give biographical details on “opal mining magnate” Alain Pretorius [aka Tiny], his partner Jan Janasz and Janasz’ right hand man Adams, and information on their mining business at Lightning Ridge.
As it happened, neither Marguerite Zelle nor Mr. Largo did spend much time intermingling with the company. After the initial introductions, Marguerite fastened herself to Alain Pretorius as soon as he arrived and they spent the rest of the party together, talking to each other in a dark corner, and Largo (aka Gus Keller), whose head was killing him, sat nursing a couple of whiskeys and glaring at them from another corner. Meantime Jan Janasz and Adams were also fascinated by the pas de deux between her and their associate Tiny, (aka Alain Pretorius).
II.
When preparing for the party that evening, Michele couldn’t face putting her fat suit on again.
And why bother? She thought to herself. There’s no point, now, that Keller’s seen the real me, not to mention Janasz and Adams. That advantage has now gone west.
So while Keller had been napping, and Janasz and Adams had been doing whatever it was they were doing, to prepare for the party, Michele had nipped out and purchased a simple, strapless black dress which showed off the long column of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her slender waist and her long, long legs.
When she’d knocked on the door to Keller’s room he’d opened the door promptly. He wore a black silk shirt and charcoal grey slacks.
“How are you feeling, Keller?” she asked.
“Fine,” Keller lied. He’d just swallowed three more aspirin in an attempt to blunt the headache that was just not going away. “You’re looking very lovely,” he said.
She grinned, “Why, thank you. Well, let’s go down, shall we? The guests should be arriving soon.”
III.
Keller had looked up..and up…into the face of Alain Pretorius. Pretorius had given him a firm handshake, then turned to “Marguerite Zelle” and his eyes had lit up.
And that had been all she wrote, Keller thought, as he gulped from the glass of whisky he’d demanded from a red-jacketed bartender and settled down into a chair from which he could watch them.
He could not believe what he was seeing.
It was not the fact that she was a hundred pounds lighter than she had been the day before, or that he noticed anything particular different in her persona. [Having lost his memory, all he knew of her was what he had seen of her in the last ten hours. He knew she had a fat suit, but he’d never seen her wearing it.]
She’d been so solicitous to him during the last few hours…saving his life, helping him to his room, checking out his head, kissing him…he’d gotten the impression that they were an “item.” A team.
And look at her now, with that six-foot-six behemoth…wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off his biceps. She was sitting so close to him she was almost in his lap. She was smiling, she was laughing. She was leaning forward and touching his arm as she talked to him, and sat relaxed and unmoving while he touched her arm. She was resting her chin in her hand and putting her pinky finger in her mouth to look as if she were pondering his words…
Bitch, though Keller, on this third whisky. Just because the guy’s taller than god and built like a brick house…and rich…
Jesus, his head hurt. He couldn’t take this, he had to go crash.
Keller finished off his third whisky, then walked – on steady feet – out of the living room where the party was being held and up to Marguerite Zelle’s room. There, he threw himself face down on the bed without bothering to get out of his clothes, and fell asleep immediately.
IV.
Jan Janasz didn’t notice Keller leaving…his attention was also focused on the persons of his employee, the 6-foot-6 actor known to all and sundry as Tiny, and the woman he knew as Marguerite Zelle.
Janasz also could not believe what he was seeing.
Prior to that morning, he’d spoken face to face with her many times via Skype (each time with Michele wearing her fat suit and having the camera situated such that her entire large form could be seen by Janasz, as opposed to just her face).
When she’d arrived in Sydney he’d seen her at the theater space, and then here at the house a couple of times. Each time he’d taken note of her behavior – she had been cool and professional in behavior, rarely smiling. She’d been wearing her fat suit, and covering that long, flowing outfits like the great Bea Arthur had worn in The Golden Girls, and he’d thought her gorgeous….but a little cold. And that coldness was part of her charm…you so wanted to get close to her, to thaw her…
But now, now, she was wearing a dress that revealed more of her skin than he’d ever seen before, from her tanned arms with sculpted biceps and triceps, to the shapely calves. It was more than the fact that the black dress revealed her small, pert breasts and her flat stomach. And this even though she’d told him earlier that day that she’d be wearing her fat suit that night.
And here she was, looking gorgeous in a black strapless dress, with all of her firm, tanned flesh a glorious bronze, unmarred by tattoos.
And her whole attitude, her whole persona, was changed.
She was loose, very feminine, very sexy, very seductive.
He caught his breath as she ran her fingers through her long, glorious hair, watched as she put a hand on his bicep and leaned closer to him, speaking intently.
Why had he never learned how to read lips, Janasz thought.
Which was the real Marguerite Zelle, he wondered. This woman, or the colder, more professional woman in the fat suit?
Whichever one...she was an excellent actress.
Had he but known, he would have given Tiny his role, and taken the role of the prospective victim, Alain Pretorius, himself.
And Tiny….damn Tiny…he was really enjoying himself…
V.
Adams fixed himself another drink.
The cliché about jealousy is that it’s a green-eyed monster.
If that were true, Adams’ eyes would have been emeralds shooting sparks.
He wasn’t sure whom he was the most jealous of…Tiny for what looked like him having the chance of bedding Marguerite Zelle that very night, or Marguerite Zelle for what looked like having the chance of bedding the delectable Tiny.
And here he was, with no one to bed at all.
Life was very hard.
, by Michele Bravo. Tells you all you need to know about how her fictional characters, Dighton & Forrest, met.
I.
That evening, the company of Jan Janasz’s Actor’s Theatre gathered together at the house on the cliff.
This company consisted of some twenty individuals, consisting of costumiers, set designers and dressers, lighting men, sound men as well as a few actors, enjoyed themselves immensely, scarfing down the free food and wine.
They could – and did -- discuss anything they wanted amongst themselves. Their only job was, if spoken to by the woman, Marguerite Zelle or the American, Mr. Largo, to be able to give biographical details on “opal mining magnate” Alain Pretorius [aka Tiny], his partner Jan Janasz and Janasz’ right hand man Adams, and information on their mining business at Lightning Ridge.
As it happened, neither Marguerite Zelle nor Mr. Largo did spend much time intermingling with the company. After the initial introductions, Marguerite fastened herself to Alain Pretorius as soon as he arrived and they spent the rest of the party together, talking to each other in a dark corner, and Largo (aka Gus Keller), whose head was killing him, sat nursing a couple of whiskeys and glaring at them from another corner. Meantime Jan Janasz and Adams were also fascinated by the pas de deux between her and their associate Tiny, (aka Alain Pretorius).
II.
When preparing for the party that evening, Michele couldn’t face putting her fat suit on again.
And why bother? She thought to herself. There’s no point, now, that Keller’s seen the real me, not to mention Janasz and Adams. That advantage has now gone west.
So while Keller had been napping, and Janasz and Adams had been doing whatever it was they were doing, to prepare for the party, Michele had nipped out and purchased a simple, strapless black dress which showed off the long column of her neck, her shoulders, her breasts, her slender waist and her long, long legs.
When she’d knocked on the door to Keller’s room he’d opened the door promptly. He wore a black silk shirt and charcoal grey slacks.
“How are you feeling, Keller?” she asked.
“Fine,” Keller lied. He’d just swallowed three more aspirin in an attempt to blunt the headache that was just not going away. “You’re looking very lovely,” he said.
She grinned, “Why, thank you. Well, let’s go down, shall we? The guests should be arriving soon.”
III.
Keller had looked up..and up…into the face of Alain Pretorius. Pretorius had given him a firm handshake, then turned to “Marguerite Zelle” and his eyes had lit up.
And that had been all she wrote, Keller thought, as he gulped from the glass of whisky he’d demanded from a red-jacketed bartender and settled down into a chair from which he could watch them.
He could not believe what he was seeing.
It was not the fact that she was a hundred pounds lighter than she had been the day before, or that he noticed anything particular different in her persona. [Having lost his memory, all he knew of her was what he had seen of her in the last ten hours. He knew she had a fat suit, but he’d never seen her wearing it.]
She’d been so solicitous to him during the last few hours…saving his life, helping him to his room, checking out his head, kissing him…he’d gotten the impression that they were an “item.” A team.
And look at her now, with that six-foot-six behemoth…wearing a short-sleeved t-shirt that showed off his biceps. She was sitting so close to him she was almost in his lap. She was smiling, she was laughing. She was leaning forward and touching his arm as she talked to him, and sat relaxed and unmoving while he touched her arm. She was resting her chin in her hand and putting her pinky finger in her mouth to look as if she were pondering his words…
Bitch, though Keller, on this third whisky. Just because the guy’s taller than god and built like a brick house…and rich…
Jesus, his head hurt. He couldn’t take this, he had to go crash.
Keller finished off his third whisky, then walked – on steady feet – out of the living room where the party was being held and up to Marguerite Zelle’s room. There, he threw himself face down on the bed without bothering to get out of his clothes, and fell asleep immediately.
IV.
Jan Janasz didn’t notice Keller leaving…his attention was also focused on the persons of his employee, the 6-foot-6 actor known to all and sundry as Tiny, and the woman he knew as Marguerite Zelle.
Janasz also could not believe what he was seeing.
Prior to that morning, he’d spoken face to face with her many times via Skype (each time with Michele wearing her fat suit and having the camera situated such that her entire large form could be seen by Janasz, as opposed to just her face).
When she’d arrived in Sydney he’d seen her at the theater space, and then here at the house a couple of times. Each time he’d taken note of her behavior – she had been cool and professional in behavior, rarely smiling. She’d been wearing her fat suit, and covering that long, flowing outfits like the great Bea Arthur had worn in The Golden Girls, and he’d thought her gorgeous….but a little cold. And that coldness was part of her charm…you so wanted to get close to her, to thaw her…
But now, now, she was wearing a dress that revealed more of her skin than he’d ever seen before, from her tanned arms with sculpted biceps and triceps, to the shapely calves. It was more than the fact that the black dress revealed her small, pert breasts and her flat stomach. And this even though she’d told him earlier that day that she’d be wearing her fat suit that night.
And here she was, looking gorgeous in a black strapless dress, with all of her firm, tanned flesh a glorious bronze, unmarred by tattoos.
And her whole attitude, her whole persona, was changed.
She was loose, very feminine, very sexy, very seductive.
He caught his breath as she ran her fingers through her long, glorious hair, watched as she put a hand on his bicep and leaned closer to him, speaking intently.
Why had he never learned how to read lips, Janasz thought.
Which was the real Marguerite Zelle, he wondered. This woman, or the colder, more professional woman in the fat suit?
Whichever one...she was an excellent actress.
Had he but known, he would have given Tiny his role, and taken the role of the prospective victim, Alain Pretorius, himself.
And Tiny….damn Tiny…he was really enjoying himself…
V.
Adams fixed himself another drink.
The cliché about jealousy is that it’s a green-eyed monster.
If that were true, Adams’ eyes would have been emeralds shooting sparks.
He wasn’t sure whom he was the most jealous of…Tiny for what looked like him having the chance of bedding Marguerite Zelle that very night, or Marguerite Zelle for what looked like having the chance of bedding the delectable Tiny.
And here he was, with no one to bed at all.
Life was very hard.
Friday, September 3, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 21
I.
Jan Janasz and Adams were in the living room, relaxing with drinks. When Michele entered the room they rose.
“I hung up your fat suit to dry,” said Janasz, quickly. He couldn’t keep his eyes from glancing at her now…looking so different now that she had shed the appearance of over a hundred pounds. Her hair was still wet and lay closely against her skull, reveal a wonderful bone structure.
“Thank you,” said Michele, smiling.
“How is Mr. Largo?”
“He’s fine. I know first aid, I checked him out. He’s got a headache, nothing more.”
“I’m terribly sorry…”
Michele waved a hand. “Don’t even worry about it. It’s not a concern. Now, we’re on for the cocktail party tonight, right? You’ve invited your entire company?”
“Yes, and they’ve been briefed. But will Mr. Largo…?”
“He’ll be there, don’t worry. And if he decides to leave the party early because of his headache…well, the party will continue on, as arranged. Everyone will stay in character and do what they were supposed to be doing. They’ll play for my benefit, if nothing else. Either way, though, it will end at midnight, as per our script.”
Jan nodded. “Very well. You’re the boss.”
“Now, I’ll be back in character, in my fatsuit, tonight, and you’re not to discuss my lack of fatness to your company. Not that I would think the subject would ever come up, but if it does…I’m large and in charge, okay?”
Jan nodded. “Of course. The subject won’t even come up.”
“Thank you. Well, I’m going back up to tend to Mr. Largo. I’ll be back to retrieve the suit in a couple of hours.”
II.
Adams poured himself another drink, and looked at Janasz.
“Does anything strike you as unusual about this situation, Jan?” he asked.
Jan was still working on his first drink. He waved a hand. “Oh, unusual. They are Americans, after all. And she’s apparently as rich as Croesus…if she likes to walk around in a fat suit to stay in character…well, she’s just a dedicated actress.”
Adams shook his head. “Rich people…you really have to wonder…is it the money that makes them go all doolally, or what?”
“Something in the ink, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jan.
III.
Michele returned to her bedroom. Gus Keller was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his belly. His eyes were closed. He looked like a sleeping Adonis. Well…his face didn’t have quite the classical handsomeness of an Adonis, but his features weren’t that bad, and his body was nothing to sneeze at, either. His blue swimming trunks set off his tan nicely.
His eyes opened, even though she had closed the door quite quietly. He started to sit up. She strode quickly to the bed, leant over it and gently pressed him backward.
“No need to get up,” she said. “Rest for a couple of hours. I need you at your best tonight.”
She had kneeled on the bed as she’d pressed him back down, now he took her hand and stared into her eyes, searchingly.
She looked at him, puzzled. “What’s the matter?”
“You saved my life. I’m just wondering what you’d do if I kissed you.”
Michele stared at him, feeling rather surprised. But hell, why not? She bent down, and cupping his face with one hand, kissed him on the lips.
It felt good that she remained with her hand cupping his face, kissing him deeper and deeper.
Finally she broke away, laughing a little, surprised at how much she had enjoyed it.
“Okay, Keller, there was your kiss. Now, take a nap, please.”
“I won’t be able to nap if…”
“I’m leaving.”
Michele went to her suitcase, and from a secret pocket pulled out a swimsuit. Heck, she thought to herself as she headed down the stairs once more. She had two hours where she could be herself. She was going to go for a nice, long swim. Perhaps try her hand at the high diving board. Just let herself go.
Jan Janasz and Adams were in the living room, relaxing with drinks. When Michele entered the room they rose.
“I hung up your fat suit to dry,” said Janasz, quickly. He couldn’t keep his eyes from glancing at her now…looking so different now that she had shed the appearance of over a hundred pounds. Her hair was still wet and lay closely against her skull, reveal a wonderful bone structure.
“Thank you,” said Michele, smiling.
“How is Mr. Largo?”
“He’s fine. I know first aid, I checked him out. He’s got a headache, nothing more.”
“I’m terribly sorry…”
Michele waved a hand. “Don’t even worry about it. It’s not a concern. Now, we’re on for the cocktail party tonight, right? You’ve invited your entire company?”
“Yes, and they’ve been briefed. But will Mr. Largo…?”
“He’ll be there, don’t worry. And if he decides to leave the party early because of his headache…well, the party will continue on, as arranged. Everyone will stay in character and do what they were supposed to be doing. They’ll play for my benefit, if nothing else. Either way, though, it will end at midnight, as per our script.”
Jan nodded. “Very well. You’re the boss.”
“Now, I’ll be back in character, in my fatsuit, tonight, and you’re not to discuss my lack of fatness to your company. Not that I would think the subject would ever come up, but if it does…I’m large and in charge, okay?”
Jan nodded. “Of course. The subject won’t even come up.”
“Thank you. Well, I’m going back up to tend to Mr. Largo. I’ll be back to retrieve the suit in a couple of hours.”
II.
Adams poured himself another drink, and looked at Janasz.
“Does anything strike you as unusual about this situation, Jan?” he asked.
Jan was still working on his first drink. He waved a hand. “Oh, unusual. They are Americans, after all. And she’s apparently as rich as Croesus…if she likes to walk around in a fat suit to stay in character…well, she’s just a dedicated actress.”
Adams shook his head. “Rich people…you really have to wonder…is it the money that makes them go all doolally, or what?”
“Something in the ink, I shouldn’t wonder,” said Jan.
III.
Michele returned to her bedroom. Gus Keller was lying on the bed, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his belly. His eyes were closed. He looked like a sleeping Adonis. Well…his face didn’t have quite the classical handsomeness of an Adonis, but his features weren’t that bad, and his body was nothing to sneeze at, either. His blue swimming trunks set off his tan nicely.
His eyes opened, even though she had closed the door quite quietly. He started to sit up. She strode quickly to the bed, leant over it and gently pressed him backward.
“No need to get up,” she said. “Rest for a couple of hours. I need you at your best tonight.”
She had kneeled on the bed as she’d pressed him back down, now he took her hand and stared into her eyes, searchingly.
She looked at him, puzzled. “What’s the matter?”
“You saved my life. I’m just wondering what you’d do if I kissed you.”
Michele stared at him, feeling rather surprised. But hell, why not? She bent down, and cupping his face with one hand, kissed him on the lips.
It felt good that she remained with her hand cupping his face, kissing him deeper and deeper.
Finally she broke away, laughing a little, surprised at how much she had enjoyed it.
“Okay, Keller, there was your kiss. Now, take a nap, please.”
“I won’t be able to nap if…”
“I’m leaving.”
Michele went to her suitcase, and from a secret pocket pulled out a swimsuit. Heck, she thought to herself as she headed down the stairs once more. She had two hours where she could be herself. She was going to go for a nice, long swim. Perhaps try her hand at the high diving board. Just let herself go.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 20
Gus Keller lay on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in. His throat fell sore, he must have coughed up some water. But that was nothing compared to his head. Not only did the back of his head hurt, but so did the inside of his head.
But maybe all that pain would go away if he knew who he was. Who am I? he thought. Who am I? Gus Keller? Mr. Largo?
Hell, there was an easy way to find out. Where was his wallet?
He sat up, slowly. Everything looked normal…nothing was spinning around. He was okay, just the aching head, and the fact that he couldn’t remember who he was, who that woman was…who the man called Jan was…he couldn’t remember.
Don’t panic, he told himself. It’s just because of your head. You’ll go to sleep tonight and when you wake up you’ll be fine. But tonight, find your damn wallet, and see what that says.
He looked around the room…this had to be the woman’s room – she’d gotten her kimono out of the closet, after all. Was it his room, too, though?
He looked into the closet – only women’s clothing. Fat woman’s clothing.
He opened a door into the hallway, walked down a ways and opened the next door. He didn’t need to visit the closet, there were shorts and a t-shirt tossed onto the bed, and tennis shoes and loafers on the floor. This must be his room.
He picked up the shorts, felt in the pockets. From one pocket, he drew out a small spiral notebook. From the other, a wallet.
Holding his breath, he flipped the wallet open. He didn’t recognize the face of the man on the license, but he looked up at the mirror on one side of the room…it was the same face. He looked down at the license again. August Keller.
He went through the entire wallet. Credit cards, a membership in an art association, in a chess club…every card with the name Gus Keller on it. A couple of $20 bills – American, and several 20AUS dollars.
No personal pictures of any kind.
Next, Keller turned to the spiral notebook. He opened it and looked at the front page.
In capital letters on the front page was written: Alain Pretorius
And below it:
Drowning?
Mugging?
Heart attack?
And below that…
LDK?
Keller stared at the list. What the hell? Why did he know that that last entry, LDK, meant “Long distance killing.” A sniper killing. Why did he know that? And what was this list?
Were they private detectives, trying to figure out how a man had died? No, that wouldn’t be it. Were they….killers…trying to decide how to kill a man?
That woman…so beautiful…she’d saved his life…she was a killer? He was a killer?
He must be.
With a sudden sense of urgency, Keller dropped the notebook and returned to the woman’s bedroom. He needed to know what her name was.
She hadn’t yet returned, and he breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes cast about. There was her purse. He pounced on it, looked inside, extracted a passport and opened it. The woman’s face, the name: Marguerite Zelle. Born, Rome, Italy, 1971.
He stuffed the passport back where he’d gotten it, and laid down once more on the bed.
So..he was Gus Keller. To her. To the men downstairs, he was Mr. Largo. And she was Marguerite Zelle. To the men downstairs, probably. But…what was she to him? It was probably complicated enough when he *wasn’t suffering from amnesia. But now…
Hell, his head was hurting…for more reasons than one, now.
But maybe all that pain would go away if he knew who he was. Who am I? he thought. Who am I? Gus Keller? Mr. Largo?
Hell, there was an easy way to find out. Where was his wallet?
He sat up, slowly. Everything looked normal…nothing was spinning around. He was okay, just the aching head, and the fact that he couldn’t remember who he was, who that woman was…who the man called Jan was…he couldn’t remember.
Don’t panic, he told himself. It’s just because of your head. You’ll go to sleep tonight and when you wake up you’ll be fine. But tonight, find your damn wallet, and see what that says.
He looked around the room…this had to be the woman’s room – she’d gotten her kimono out of the closet, after all. Was it his room, too, though?
He looked into the closet – only women’s clothing. Fat woman’s clothing.
He opened a door into the hallway, walked down a ways and opened the next door. He didn’t need to visit the closet, there were shorts and a t-shirt tossed onto the bed, and tennis shoes and loafers on the floor. This must be his room.
He picked up the shorts, felt in the pockets. From one pocket, he drew out a small spiral notebook. From the other, a wallet.
Holding his breath, he flipped the wallet open. He didn’t recognize the face of the man on the license, but he looked up at the mirror on one side of the room…it was the same face. He looked down at the license again. August Keller.
He went through the entire wallet. Credit cards, a membership in an art association, in a chess club…every card with the name Gus Keller on it. A couple of $20 bills – American, and several 20AUS dollars.
No personal pictures of any kind.
Next, Keller turned to the spiral notebook. He opened it and looked at the front page.
In capital letters on the front page was written: Alain Pretorius
And below it:
Drowning?
Mugging?
Heart attack?
And below that…
LDK?
Keller stared at the list. What the hell? Why did he know that that last entry, LDK, meant “Long distance killing.” A sniper killing. Why did he know that? And what was this list?
Were they private detectives, trying to figure out how a man had died? No, that wouldn’t be it. Were they….killers…trying to decide how to kill a man?
That woman…so beautiful…she’d saved his life…she was a killer? He was a killer?
He must be.
With a sudden sense of urgency, Keller dropped the notebook and returned to the woman’s bedroom. He needed to know what her name was.
She hadn’t yet returned, and he breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes cast about. There was her purse. He pounced on it, looked inside, extracted a passport and opened it. The woman’s face, the name: Marguerite Zelle. Born, Rome, Italy, 1971.
He stuffed the passport back where he’d gotten it, and laid down once more on the bed.
So..he was Gus Keller. To her. To the men downstairs, he was Mr. Largo. And she was Marguerite Zelle. To the men downstairs, probably. But…what was she to him? It was probably complicated enough when he *wasn’t suffering from amnesia. But now…
Hell, his head was hurting…for more reasons than one, now.
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 19
Michele Bravo had risen early that morning, and gone downstairs dressed in her fatsuit, as usual, covered in a scarlet kimono, to find Adams and Jan having breakfast in the kitchen. Michele had greeted them, agreed that their presence would not be required until later that evening when they gave the cocktail party for “Alain Pretoirus” and bid them farewell. She’d put their dishes in the dishwasher, and then started her own breakfast.
Keller appeared a few minutes later, wearing charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. He must find the air-conditioning in the house a bit chilly.
Michele always loved a man in a turtleneck sweater. “Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
“Normally I don’t cook,” Michele told him, while she kept an eagle eye on the golden yellow mixture in the frying pan. She’d dropped in a bit of onion, a bit of cheese, and a lot of butter, just the way she liked it.
Soon she was dividing the eggs onto two plates, and poured two cups of coffee for them as they sat at the kitchen table.
“Our employers have gone out,” she told Keller, “shopping for the party tonight.”
He nodded.
Michele gazed at him closely. Time to find out what he’d learned last night, talking with Adams and Jan. Just how professional was he?
“So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours.” She said. “Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller reached into his rear pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook.
Michele listened to him intently, and nodded from time to time, impressed. If she hadn’t known he was a cop…well…a member of law enforcement, anyway…she’d believe he was the hired assassin he was supposed to be. He had the calculating mind for it.
When he came to a halt Michele said, “Very good, Keller. That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
She took their plates to the sink and rinsed off the remnants before stowing them in the dishwasher.
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller. “Just hang out here until tonight?”
He sure was impatient to know what they were doing, Michele thought. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Whatever game *he thought he was playing, he probably didn’t have unlimited time to do it. Probably had to get back to the office in another week or so, back to crunching numbers in his little cubicle.
Should she tweak him some more, Michele wondered. Show off her marksmanship skills again?
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a workout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Did his eyes light up when he said that, Michele wondered. Was he anxious to get his arms around her. She laughed to herself.
“My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
Michele was impressed. If he was trying to put on an act, it was a good one. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.” It was true. The spectacular fights that took place in TV shows and in movies were really bogus. A real fight, if at least one of the people involved knew what they were doing, was over in seconds.
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Michele shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Privately, Michele agreed with him. However, Keller acquiesced and disappeared upstairs to change into his swim trunks. Michele was waiting for him, still kimono clad, on the pool deck. She cast an appreciative eye over his physique…nice body.
He dove into the pool and swam with strong strokes from one end of the Olympic sized pool to the other.
Michele suppressed a sigh. What she wouldn’t give to be in that cold wetness right alongside him. Unfortunately, wearing a fat suit and trying to swim was counter-intuitive.
After a few more laps, Keller climbed out of the pool. He stood on the edge to dry himself, and water dripped around him. As he took a step, his foot slipped. He looked down in surprise.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when you’re feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“People around here probably wear thongs,” said Michele. She turned her head to look around, vaguely, wondering if a pair of thongs might be hiding somewhere, as he’d continued talking. Then she heard the sound of a thunk, turned back and watched as a prone Keller rolled off the deck into the water.
Faster than the speed of thought, Michele was out of her lounge chair and kneeling on the deck, trying to grab his arm to haul him back onto dry land. But, although she’d worn her fat suit for years, she’d never knelt in it like this, nor leaned over so far. She found herself overbalancing and fell into the water as well, driving Keller’s body deeper into the pool.
Michele knew she wouldn’t be able to dive down to the bottom of the pool in her fatsuit, it was too buoyant. Swearing between her teeth, she unzipped out of it and shoved it onto the deck, then dove down deep to grab Keller’s body. She towed him to the shallow part of the pool, then exerted all her strength to lift him out of the pool and onto the deck.
She was prepared to start artificial respiration, but he was already starting to cough and choke. She slapped his face a few times. “Gus, Gus,” she said, urgently. “Come on, baby.”
He opened his eyes.
“I…what…” he coughed, looking bewildered.
Michele sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
He blinked up at her
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Michele started to reach behind him to feel his head, when Jan and Adams arrived. Michele almost laughed to see their frightened faces. What, did they think she’d sue them because they’d rented a house with a bloody deathtrap for a pool?
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked Jan.
“He’s alright, Jan,” Michele told him reassuringly. “He’s alright,”
Michele almost burst out laughing as she saw Jan’s face…taking in her bra and her undies and the fact that her stomach was as flat as a board’s. But the amusement was quickly replaced by anger. Now Adams and Jan…not to mention Keller…knew her real appearance. Damn.
Jan’s lips were working.
“Don’t distress yourselves at all.” Michele said, calmly. “Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
Keller grimaced, but got to his feet. He put a hand to his head and then looked at it. Not much redness.
“I’m fine,” he said, as Michele moved to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” Michele told him. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
Michele walked with Keller into the house. He was moving with good coordination, and was turning his head this way and that, as if to stretch his neck. If he’d gotten whiplash she’d kill him!
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” she told him as they started climbing the steps to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” Keller said, in a strong voice. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head again.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
She returned with the kit, and knelt in front of him. He was still sitting where she’d left him.
Michele knew all about first aid….anyone in her dangerous profession had to be able to patch themselves up, let alone anyone else they came in contact with whom they wanted to keep alive…and had Keller follow her finger with his eyes to make sure they were both coordinated. She probed his skull…standing very close to him in her half-nakedity, and found that he had a bump but no dents where he’d fallen.
He’d be fine. No need for a bandage.
“Whew,” she said, relieved. (Why did she feel so relieved. Was she growing fond of this guy?) “Okay, Keller, you’re fine, though I bet you’ve got a splitting headache, eh? I’ll go down and tell Jan we’re still on for the operation tonight. You won’t need to appear – just stay in your room and sleep it off. I can find out everything we need to know myself.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Keller. “I…. I’m fine." He extended a hand, put it on her waist to stay her. "A bit of a headache…how about some aspirin?”
Allowing his hand to stay on her waist, Michele reached into the first aid kit for a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two pills, which she handed to him. He took them with his other hand, and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them without benefit water. She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed slightly, and then went over to her suitcase and pulled out another kimono, a black one this time.
“So, now you see me as I truly am,” she told Keller, as she wrapped the kimono round her. “And so have Jan and Adams. I’m not too happy about that. Still, needs drives when the devil vomits into your teacup. I’ll go have a chat with them. Lay down and rest up, Keller, I’ll be right back.”
Keller appeared a few minutes later, wearing charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. He must find the air-conditioning in the house a bit chilly.
Michele always loved a man in a turtleneck sweater. “Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
“Normally I don’t cook,” Michele told him, while she kept an eagle eye on the golden yellow mixture in the frying pan. She’d dropped in a bit of onion, a bit of cheese, and a lot of butter, just the way she liked it.
Soon she was dividing the eggs onto two plates, and poured two cups of coffee for them as they sat at the kitchen table.
“Our employers have gone out,” she told Keller, “shopping for the party tonight.”
He nodded.
Michele gazed at him closely. Time to find out what he’d learned last night, talking with Adams and Jan. Just how professional was he?
“So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours.” She said. “Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller reached into his rear pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook.
Michele listened to him intently, and nodded from time to time, impressed. If she hadn’t known he was a cop…well…a member of law enforcement, anyway…she’d believe he was the hired assassin he was supposed to be. He had the calculating mind for it.
When he came to a halt Michele said, “Very good, Keller. That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
She took their plates to the sink and rinsed off the remnants before stowing them in the dishwasher.
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller. “Just hang out here until tonight?”
He sure was impatient to know what they were doing, Michele thought. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Whatever game *he thought he was playing, he probably didn’t have unlimited time to do it. Probably had to get back to the office in another week or so, back to crunching numbers in his little cubicle.
Should she tweak him some more, Michele wondered. Show off her marksmanship skills again?
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a workout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Did his eyes light up when he said that, Michele wondered. Was he anxious to get his arms around her. She laughed to herself.
“My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
Michele was impressed. If he was trying to put on an act, it was a good one. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.” It was true. The spectacular fights that took place in TV shows and in movies were really bogus. A real fight, if at least one of the people involved knew what they were doing, was over in seconds.
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Michele shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Privately, Michele agreed with him. However, Keller acquiesced and disappeared upstairs to change into his swim trunks. Michele was waiting for him, still kimono clad, on the pool deck. She cast an appreciative eye over his physique…nice body.
He dove into the pool and swam with strong strokes from one end of the Olympic sized pool to the other.
Michele suppressed a sigh. What she wouldn’t give to be in that cold wetness right alongside him. Unfortunately, wearing a fat suit and trying to swim was counter-intuitive.
After a few more laps, Keller climbed out of the pool. He stood on the edge to dry himself, and water dripped around him. As he took a step, his foot slipped. He looked down in surprise.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when you’re feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“People around here probably wear thongs,” said Michele. She turned her head to look around, vaguely, wondering if a pair of thongs might be hiding somewhere, as he’d continued talking. Then she heard the sound of a thunk, turned back and watched as a prone Keller rolled off the deck into the water.
Faster than the speed of thought, Michele was out of her lounge chair and kneeling on the deck, trying to grab his arm to haul him back onto dry land. But, although she’d worn her fat suit for years, she’d never knelt in it like this, nor leaned over so far. She found herself overbalancing and fell into the water as well, driving Keller’s body deeper into the pool.
Michele knew she wouldn’t be able to dive down to the bottom of the pool in her fatsuit, it was too buoyant. Swearing between her teeth, she unzipped out of it and shoved it onto the deck, then dove down deep to grab Keller’s body. She towed him to the shallow part of the pool, then exerted all her strength to lift him out of the pool and onto the deck.
She was prepared to start artificial respiration, but he was already starting to cough and choke. She slapped his face a few times. “Gus, Gus,” she said, urgently. “Come on, baby.”
He opened his eyes.
“I…what…” he coughed, looking bewildered.
Michele sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
He blinked up at her
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Michele started to reach behind him to feel his head, when Jan and Adams arrived. Michele almost laughed to see their frightened faces. What, did they think she’d sue them because they’d rented a house with a bloody deathtrap for a pool?
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked Jan.
“He’s alright, Jan,” Michele told him reassuringly. “He’s alright,”
Michele almost burst out laughing as she saw Jan’s face…taking in her bra and her undies and the fact that her stomach was as flat as a board’s. But the amusement was quickly replaced by anger. Now Adams and Jan…not to mention Keller…knew her real appearance. Damn.
Jan’s lips were working.
“Don’t distress yourselves at all.” Michele said, calmly. “Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
Keller grimaced, but got to his feet. He put a hand to his head and then looked at it. Not much redness.
“I’m fine,” he said, as Michele moved to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” Michele told him. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
Michele walked with Keller into the house. He was moving with good coordination, and was turning his head this way and that, as if to stretch his neck. If he’d gotten whiplash she’d kill him!
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” she told him as they started climbing the steps to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” Keller said, in a strong voice. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head again.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
She returned with the kit, and knelt in front of him. He was still sitting where she’d left him.
Michele knew all about first aid….anyone in her dangerous profession had to be able to patch themselves up, let alone anyone else they came in contact with whom they wanted to keep alive…and had Keller follow her finger with his eyes to make sure they were both coordinated. She probed his skull…standing very close to him in her half-nakedity, and found that he had a bump but no dents where he’d fallen.
He’d be fine. No need for a bandage.
“Whew,” she said, relieved. (Why did she feel so relieved. Was she growing fond of this guy?) “Okay, Keller, you’re fine, though I bet you’ve got a splitting headache, eh? I’ll go down and tell Jan we’re still on for the operation tonight. You won’t need to appear – just stay in your room and sleep it off. I can find out everything we need to know myself.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Keller. “I…. I’m fine." He extended a hand, put it on her waist to stay her. "A bit of a headache…how about some aspirin?”
Allowing his hand to stay on her waist, Michele reached into the first aid kit for a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two pills, which she handed to him. He took them with his other hand, and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them without benefit water. She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed slightly, and then went over to her suitcase and pulled out another kimono, a black one this time.
“So, now you see me as I truly am,” she told Keller, as she wrapped the kimono round her. “And so have Jan and Adams. I’m not too happy about that. Still, needs drives when the devil vomits into your teacup. I’ll go have a chat with them. Lay down and rest up, Keller, I’ll be right back.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 18
I.
Gus Keller stood alone in the darkness. He was clad in black slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and black face paint, so only his eyes were visible, cold, cold eyes, the eyes of a killer.
He crouched behind the bole of a tree. In the light of the full moon he was assembling a rifle…barrel, stock, magazine…he lifted it to his shoulder and sighted through the scope. Moonlight glinted off the front sight.
Keller took a deep breath and sighted through the scope again. 400 yards away was the figure of his target…a woman…a large woman, dressed in red. Perfect. No one would notice any extra red on that outfit.
He closed one eye…sighted…the cross-hairs of the scope rested on the back of the head of his target. She turned around. It was Taran Tula. Keller began to squeeze the trigger…
II.
He sat up in bed, gasping. Sunshine poured through the window.
“Shit,” murmured Keller, and rolled out of bed. His chest was bare, but he wore cotton pajama bottoms. He strolled to the bay window, and looked out at the ocean. From that window he could look down at the rocks below the cliff, and the waves pounding on them. Whitecapped waves rolled gently toward shore.
Keller showered, shaved, dressed, and left his bedroom. He could smell the aroma of frying eggs, and followed it down the stairs and into the kitchen. Taran Tula herself, clad in a shimmering scarlet kimono, was fixing breakfast.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Normally I don’t cook,” she said, swirling the eggs around in the frying pan with a whisk, “so you might regret taking me up on my offer, but we will see.”
She was being too modest, Keller concluded as he scarfed down her eggs. She’d mixed in onions and a bit of cheese, and they were delicious.
“Our employers have gone out,” said Taran Tula, “shopping for the party tonight. So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller told her what he had learned about their target. Taran Tula listened to him intently, nodding now and again. “Very good,” she said. “That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller, as he watched Taran Tula rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. Just hang out here until tonight?”
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a woirkout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Taran Tula smiled. “My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
She nodded and looked at him penetratingly. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.”
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Taran Tula shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Nevertheless, and perhaps for vanity reason, Gus changed into his swimming trunks and walked out to the pool. He’d been working out and while he wasn’t bulging with muscles, he didn’t look too bad, if he did say so himself.
Taran Tula relaxed in a deck chair as she watched him swim. He wished she would join him, but guessed that she was self-conscious about her appearance in a swim-suit. It was so odd…you’d think in her job she’d find it better to be lithe and svelte…but perhaps no one expected a fa….an extra large woman to be a cold-blooded killer. And she could certainly look jolly when she had a mind to…
Finally tiring of the swim, Keller stepped out of the pool. He stepped onto the stone deck, and his left foot slipped.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when your feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“They probably expect you to wear flip-flops,” said Taran Tula.
“Well, it’s stupid,” said Keller petulantly, taking another step. This time, for whatever reason, his foot slipped out from under him completely. He was unable to regain his balance and felt himself falling. His head hit the stone, sparks exploded in front of his eyes, and then he felt himself falling into the pool.
III.
He opened his eyes, and stared blankly up at a woman who was gazing down at him with concern.
“Gus, Gus,” she was saying. “Come on, baby.”
He didn’t recognize her at all, but she seemed to know him. Her hair was dripping wet, she was dripping wet. And she wore nothing except a bra and panties and had tan, tan skin. And his head was killing him.
“I…what…?”
She sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
She kept calling him Keller..Gus Keller. Was that his name? God..he couldn’t remember.
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Before he could continue, two men appeared over him, both of them looking terrified.
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked one of them.
Mr. Largo? What the hell?
“He’s alright, Jan, he’s alright,” said the woman. “Don’t distress yourselves at all. Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
He…what was his name? Gus? Keller? Largo?...got up.
“I’m fine,” he said, as the woman supported him.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” said the woman. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked the man she called Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine."
The two men were looking at her, at her panties and bra and her trim, lithe, feminiely muscular form, in rather a state of shock, he thought. At Jan's feet was a mass of dripping wet clothing, misshapen clothing..too much clothing to have belonged to his savior.
"You've...uh...you've lost weight," observed the man called Jan.
The woman held up a hand. "Looks can be decieving, gentlemen. It only looks like I've lost weight. Water can be very slimming, you know."
"Oh, of course," said Jan quickly, glancing at his companion.
"So continue about your business as if nothing has happened. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
He walked with the woman into the house. He looked around…he didn’t recognize anything. He’d hit his head, fallen into the pool, and now he had lost his memory.
Which would be fine except who the hell was he? Keller or Largo? Something was wrong here. This woman...she'd been wearing a fat suit? What was up with that? And both of them...they'd looked so frightened, and not just because he'd hit his head. There'd been something else about their manner, they'd looked as if they were afraid of him.
Instead of asking who he was, maybe he’d better just keep his mouth shut and try to figure things out on his own. Besides, amnesia just happened in books. Once he got over the shock of what had happened to him, his memory would come flooding back. No problem.
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” the woman told him as they mounted the marble staircase to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” he said. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head and brought it away with a streak of blood on it. He wasn’t bleeding too badly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
“I won’t move a muscle,” he said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. She was soaking wet. Her fat suit had been soaking wet. She must have dove into the pool and pulled him out. She had saved his life.
He hoped...he rather hoped...that she'd take off her bra and panties before she came out of the bathroom...he wanted to see what she looked like completely naked. She had saved his life...whoever she was...and he wanted to make love to her.
Gus Keller stood alone in the darkness. He was clad in black slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and black face paint, so only his eyes were visible, cold, cold eyes, the eyes of a killer.
He crouched behind the bole of a tree. In the light of the full moon he was assembling a rifle…barrel, stock, magazine…he lifted it to his shoulder and sighted through the scope. Moonlight glinted off the front sight.
Keller took a deep breath and sighted through the scope again. 400 yards away was the figure of his target…a woman…a large woman, dressed in red. Perfect. No one would notice any extra red on that outfit.
He closed one eye…sighted…the cross-hairs of the scope rested on the back of the head of his target. She turned around. It was Taran Tula. Keller began to squeeze the trigger…
II.
He sat up in bed, gasping. Sunshine poured through the window.
“Shit,” murmured Keller, and rolled out of bed. His chest was bare, but he wore cotton pajama bottoms. He strolled to the bay window, and looked out at the ocean. From that window he could look down at the rocks below the cliff, and the waves pounding on them. Whitecapped waves rolled gently toward shore.
Keller showered, shaved, dressed, and left his bedroom. He could smell the aroma of frying eggs, and followed it down the stairs and into the kitchen. Taran Tula herself, clad in a shimmering scarlet kimono, was fixing breakfast.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Normally I don’t cook,” she said, swirling the eggs around in the frying pan with a whisk, “so you might regret taking me up on my offer, but we will see.”
She was being too modest, Keller concluded as he scarfed down her eggs. She’d mixed in onions and a bit of cheese, and they were delicious.
“Our employers have gone out,” said Taran Tula, “shopping for the party tonight. So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller told her what he had learned about their target. Taran Tula listened to him intently, nodding now and again. “Very good,” she said. “That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller, as he watched Taran Tula rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. Just hang out here until tonight?”
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a woirkout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Taran Tula smiled. “My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
She nodded and looked at him penetratingly. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.”
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Taran Tula shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Nevertheless, and perhaps for vanity reason, Gus changed into his swimming trunks and walked out to the pool. He’d been working out and while he wasn’t bulging with muscles, he didn’t look too bad, if he did say so himself.
Taran Tula relaxed in a deck chair as she watched him swim. He wished she would join him, but guessed that she was self-conscious about her appearance in a swim-suit. It was so odd…you’d think in her job she’d find it better to be lithe and svelte…but perhaps no one expected a fa….an extra large woman to be a cold-blooded killer. And she could certainly look jolly when she had a mind to…
Finally tiring of the swim, Keller stepped out of the pool. He stepped onto the stone deck, and his left foot slipped.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when your feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“They probably expect you to wear flip-flops,” said Taran Tula.
“Well, it’s stupid,” said Keller petulantly, taking another step. This time, for whatever reason, his foot slipped out from under him completely. He was unable to regain his balance and felt himself falling. His head hit the stone, sparks exploded in front of his eyes, and then he felt himself falling into the pool.
III.
He opened his eyes, and stared blankly up at a woman who was gazing down at him with concern.
“Gus, Gus,” she was saying. “Come on, baby.”
He didn’t recognize her at all, but she seemed to know him. Her hair was dripping wet, she was dripping wet. And she wore nothing except a bra and panties and had tan, tan skin. And his head was killing him.
“I…what…?”
She sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
She kept calling him Keller..Gus Keller. Was that his name? God..he couldn’t remember.
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Before he could continue, two men appeared over him, both of them looking terrified.
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked one of them.
Mr. Largo? What the hell?
“He’s alright, Jan, he’s alright,” said the woman. “Don’t distress yourselves at all. Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
He…what was his name? Gus? Keller? Largo?...got up.
“I’m fine,” he said, as the woman supported him.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” said the woman. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked the man she called Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine."
The two men were looking at her, at her panties and bra and her trim, lithe, feminiely muscular form, in rather a state of shock, he thought. At Jan's feet was a mass of dripping wet clothing, misshapen clothing..too much clothing to have belonged to his savior.
"You've...uh...you've lost weight," observed the man called Jan.
The woman held up a hand. "Looks can be decieving, gentlemen. It only looks like I've lost weight. Water can be very slimming, you know."
"Oh, of course," said Jan quickly, glancing at his companion.
"So continue about your business as if nothing has happened. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
He walked with the woman into the house. He looked around…he didn’t recognize anything. He’d hit his head, fallen into the pool, and now he had lost his memory.
Which would be fine except who the hell was he? Keller or Largo? Something was wrong here. This woman...she'd been wearing a fat suit? What was up with that? And both of them...they'd looked so frightened, and not just because he'd hit his head. There'd been something else about their manner, they'd looked as if they were afraid of him.
Instead of asking who he was, maybe he’d better just keep his mouth shut and try to figure things out on his own. Besides, amnesia just happened in books. Once he got over the shock of what had happened to him, his memory would come flooding back. No problem.
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” the woman told him as they mounted the marble staircase to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” he said. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head and brought it away with a streak of blood on it. He wasn’t bleeding too badly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
“I won’t move a muscle,” he said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. She was soaking wet. Her fat suit had been soaking wet. She must have dove into the pool and pulled him out. She had saved his life.
He hoped...he rather hoped...that she'd take off her bra and panties before she came out of the bathroom...he wanted to see what she looked like completely naked. She had saved his life...whoever she was...and he wanted to make love to her.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 17
Michele Bravo multi-tasked when she wrote her fiction. She watched a movie or TV show at the same time. It couldn’t be something she’d never seen before, it had to be something she knew by heart, so that she could watch it (sized appropriately in the top right corner of her laptop screen) out of the corner of her eye while writing, only devoting her full attention to it when it came to one of her favorite parts.
She had written the Dighton & Forrest “Rushmore” adventure while simultaneously watching a DVD of James Mason’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Now that her writing was complete, she’d relax for a few minutes watching "first-run" TV, if she could find anything worth watching, before surrendering herself to the arms of Morpheus.
To that end, she turned off her laptop and turned on the large-screen TV. The home was complete with satellite television, such that she could see channels not only from Australia and New Zealand, but also from Japan and the United States.
Turning on a US satellite channel, she watched in disbelief as an advertisement for the remake of the classic early 1970s TV series *Hawaii 5-0 flashed on the screen. Michele had been too young to see it on its first airing, but her parents had acquired the DVDs and she’d seen them – as well as other intelligent shows such as Mannix, Mission: Impossible and It Takes a Thief. She therefore recognized rip-offs when she saw them, and it looked like this Hawaii 5-0 was just such a rip-off, they’d taken the name and probably the theme song, and nothing else. In the place of the stylish Jack Lord as Steve McGarrett, it looked like he’d be replaced by a wise-cracking, smirking know it all, and the earnest Danno would be replaced by another wise-cracking, smirking know it all who would chase after the ladies at the drop of a lei.
Lei… lay…. Interesting play on words, Michele thought suddenly. Could she work that into one of her erotica stories? She always kept a notebook and pen at her bedside to write down such thoughts, and she quickly noted down this idea.
Then she returned her attention to the TV.
The station was now showing an ad for the new lawyer drama, also a remake, called The Defenders. Michele had read of the old show from the early 1960s, starring father and son lawyers -- crusty E.G. Marshall and young idealist Robert Reed, but never seen it. Nevertheless she looked with disgust at the advert, as it seemed clear that crusty James Belushi was going to fill the "straight laced lawyer" role, whereas Jerry O’Connell would be playing the "wild and crazy" lawyer role, as was the case in practically every "buddy" TV series produced in the 1990s. Why weren’t these two women actresses cast in this, she wondered? Why always two white men?
Michele felt on the bed and picked up her Kindle, which she shook impotently at the television screen. That was the problem with reading books on a Kindle – you couldn’t throw it at the TV screen in a moment of petulant rage, you’d break either the TV or the Kindle. It was only a softcover book that could withstand such treatment.
Michele flicked rapidly through the rest of the 100s of channels without finding anything she felt like staying up to watch. After going through them again just to make sure, she turned off the TV and turned in for the night.
Tomorrow would be a busy day.
She had written the Dighton & Forrest “Rushmore” adventure while simultaneously watching a DVD of James Mason’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Now that her writing was complete, she’d relax for a few minutes watching "first-run" TV, if she could find anything worth watching, before surrendering herself to the arms of Morpheus.
To that end, she turned off her laptop and turned on the large-screen TV. The home was complete with satellite television, such that she could see channels not only from Australia and New Zealand, but also from Japan and the United States.
Turning on a US satellite channel, she watched in disbelief as an advertisement for the remake of the classic early 1970s TV series *Hawaii 5-0 flashed on the screen. Michele had been too young to see it on its first airing, but her parents had acquired the DVDs and she’d seen them – as well as other intelligent shows such as Mannix, Mission: Impossible and It Takes a Thief. She therefore recognized rip-offs when she saw them, and it looked like this Hawaii 5-0 was just such a rip-off, they’d taken the name and probably the theme song, and nothing else. In the place of the stylish Jack Lord as Steve McGarrett, it looked like he’d be replaced by a wise-cracking, smirking know it all, and the earnest Danno would be replaced by another wise-cracking, smirking know it all who would chase after the ladies at the drop of a lei.
Lei… lay…. Interesting play on words, Michele thought suddenly. Could she work that into one of her erotica stories? She always kept a notebook and pen at her bedside to write down such thoughts, and she quickly noted down this idea.
Then she returned her attention to the TV.
The station was now showing an ad for the new lawyer drama, also a remake, called The Defenders. Michele had read of the old show from the early 1960s, starring father and son lawyers -- crusty E.G. Marshall and young idealist Robert Reed, but never seen it. Nevertheless she looked with disgust at the advert, as it seemed clear that crusty James Belushi was going to fill the "straight laced lawyer" role, whereas Jerry O’Connell would be playing the "wild and crazy" lawyer role, as was the case in practically every "buddy" TV series produced in the 1990s. Why weren’t these two women actresses cast in this, she wondered? Why always two white men?
Michele felt on the bed and picked up her Kindle, which she shook impotently at the television screen. That was the problem with reading books on a Kindle – you couldn’t throw it at the TV screen in a moment of petulant rage, you’d break either the TV or the Kindle. It was only a softcover book that could withstand such treatment.
Michele flicked rapidly through the rest of the 100s of channels without finding anything she felt like staying up to watch. After going through them again just to make sure, she turned off the TV and turned in for the night.
Tomorrow would be a busy day.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Bravo by Erotica: Dighton & Forrest: Rushmore
Sasha Forrest checked her climbing harness. Then, she checked Peter’s harness, and he checked hers. After this double checking, they knew that their gear was properly rigged and they would have no problem rappelling down George Washington’s head.
Sasha held onto the rope and gazed down over the dome of Washington’s head. Straight down, one could only see his brows and a bit of his nose, but by moving her gaze a bit she could look out over a vast plain of Joshua trees, with their eerie branches reaching toward the sky. The ground was only 60 feet below, just right for novice rappellers.
Sasha was not a rock climber. The thought of hanging her body off a cliff thousands of feet in the air while using her fingertips and toes to climb up did not appeal. No, what she enjoyed was the rappelling down….a respectable distance like 60 feet. With a properly equipped climbing harness, one could walk down the surface, or float down, light as a feather.
Sasha had first learned to rappel about ten years ago, when her sister had invited her to go along on a caving journey, in which one had to learn how to rappel, as there were three vertical tunnels of between ten to twenty feet down which one had to rappel, in order to get through the cave. Sasha had hated the caving, but loved the rappelling. Her opportunities for rappelling had been limited after that, since she would only rappel down something that she could easily reach the top of!
Such was the case with the miniature Mount Rushmore set out in the California desert. One could walk up a looooong series of steps at the back of the replica, and then rappel down the front.
“Okay, Sasha,” said Peter, “are we ready to go down?”
“I’m ready,” confirmed Sasha.
They both turned their backs on the Joshua trees and looked back at the climbing station, where the ropes down which they would soon be sliding were securely fashioned. Then, they started walking backward over the head.
In rappelling, one could either walk all the way downward – if the vertical surface permitted, or slide downward in thin air. A hand behind the back, holding the rope which was run through a descender, controlled how fast or slow one could move down the rope. Such rappelling took no upper body strength at all, only an ability to coordinate with one’s rear hand, and the leg strength to balance oneself on the climbing surface.
By the end of the day, Sasha and Peter had rappelled down Washington, Roosevelt, Jefferson and Lincoln…several times.
They’d made a special point of stopping just underneath Washington’s nose to sneeze. (In a well-known piece of Hitchcockian lore, Hitchcock had wanted to film a scene where Cary Grant had done this, but finally decided against it.) One of the “North by Northwest’s Rushmore” attendants would take your photo of this fantasy re-enactment.
At day’s end, Sasha and Peter returned to their hotel suite, divested themselves of their clothes, and walked into the whirlpool bath, where they soaked for half an hour. It was not the rappelling that had turned their legs into noodles, but the climbing up the 60-foot staircase 8 times.
Peter stretched out his legs, enjoying the bubbling heat of the whirlpool, but knowing he’d nevertheless be sore the next morning. “Tell me,” he said, “Why are you so good to me?”
“It’s just my angelic nature,” Sasha murmured.
They rose out of the whirlpool bath. Peter caught up a fluffy towel and dried off his wife, her shoulders, her arms, tweaking her breasts, then down her long legs to her feet. He dried himself off much more quickly, then they walked into the bedroom.
Sasha took her vibrator from the end table, then plumped up some pillows and made herself comfortable. She turned on the vibrator and began to rub it up and down her clitoris. Peter lay with his head propped up on one arm and placed his other hand on Sasha’s right breast, kneading it gently.
“Get behind me,” she murmured.
“My legs are like noodles,” he complained. “You get in front of me.”
He propped himself up on his own pillows, and spread his own legs. Sasha sat between them and leaned back against Peter’s chest. Sasha resumed her attentions with the vibrator, while Peter now availed himself of both her breasts, at the same time nibbling on her neck. Sasha took her time, as usual, drawing herself almost up to orgasm before delaying it…holding the vibrator hard down against her clitoris until she could feel the tell-tale fluttering, then starting to rub it up and down to main the feeling…then finally she gave in and brought herself to climax. Behind her, Peter could feel her body shuddering with the pleasure of it.
“Now you,” she said, and she and Peter switched places. She spread her legs and Peter rested between them. He used his left hand to encircle his engorged cock, and began rubbing up and down briskly.
Sasha encircled his flat belly with her hands and massaged him as he worked. He was slouched down a bit so she could look over his head to see his hand working on his cock, and she’d lain next to him, and above him and under him, enough times to know that his eyes were closed and his cheeks pouched like a chipmunk’s as he held his breath.
“Ahhh..” he murmured. “Ahhhh.”
Then he began to shudder, and the cum came up over his hand onto his belly.
“Ah, god,” he said at last. “That was good.”
“I think we need to take another bath,” said Sasha.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Let’s go.”
Sasha held onto the rope and gazed down over the dome of Washington’s head. Straight down, one could only see his brows and a bit of his nose, but by moving her gaze a bit she could look out over a vast plain of Joshua trees, with their eerie branches reaching toward the sky. The ground was only 60 feet below, just right for novice rappellers.
Sasha was not a rock climber. The thought of hanging her body off a cliff thousands of feet in the air while using her fingertips and toes to climb up did not appeal. No, what she enjoyed was the rappelling down….a respectable distance like 60 feet. With a properly equipped climbing harness, one could walk down the surface, or float down, light as a feather.
Sasha had first learned to rappel about ten years ago, when her sister had invited her to go along on a caving journey, in which one had to learn how to rappel, as there were three vertical tunnels of between ten to twenty feet down which one had to rappel, in order to get through the cave. Sasha had hated the caving, but loved the rappelling. Her opportunities for rappelling had been limited after that, since she would only rappel down something that she could easily reach the top of!
Such was the case with the miniature Mount Rushmore set out in the California desert. One could walk up a looooong series of steps at the back of the replica, and then rappel down the front.
“Okay, Sasha,” said Peter, “are we ready to go down?”
“I’m ready,” confirmed Sasha.
They both turned their backs on the Joshua trees and looked back at the climbing station, where the ropes down which they would soon be sliding were securely fashioned. Then, they started walking backward over the head.
In rappelling, one could either walk all the way downward – if the vertical surface permitted, or slide downward in thin air. A hand behind the back, holding the rope which was run through a descender, controlled how fast or slow one could move down the rope. Such rappelling took no upper body strength at all, only an ability to coordinate with one’s rear hand, and the leg strength to balance oneself on the climbing surface.
By the end of the day, Sasha and Peter had rappelled down Washington, Roosevelt, Jefferson and Lincoln…several times.
They’d made a special point of stopping just underneath Washington’s nose to sneeze. (In a well-known piece of Hitchcockian lore, Hitchcock had wanted to film a scene where Cary Grant had done this, but finally decided against it.) One of the “North by Northwest’s Rushmore” attendants would take your photo of this fantasy re-enactment.
At day’s end, Sasha and Peter returned to their hotel suite, divested themselves of their clothes, and walked into the whirlpool bath, where they soaked for half an hour. It was not the rappelling that had turned their legs into noodles, but the climbing up the 60-foot staircase 8 times.
Peter stretched out his legs, enjoying the bubbling heat of the whirlpool, but knowing he’d nevertheless be sore the next morning. “Tell me,” he said, “Why are you so good to me?”
“It’s just my angelic nature,” Sasha murmured.
They rose out of the whirlpool bath. Peter caught up a fluffy towel and dried off his wife, her shoulders, her arms, tweaking her breasts, then down her long legs to her feet. He dried himself off much more quickly, then they walked into the bedroom.
Sasha took her vibrator from the end table, then plumped up some pillows and made herself comfortable. She turned on the vibrator and began to rub it up and down her clitoris. Peter lay with his head propped up on one arm and placed his other hand on Sasha’s right breast, kneading it gently.
“Get behind me,” she murmured.
“My legs are like noodles,” he complained. “You get in front of me.”
He propped himself up on his own pillows, and spread his own legs. Sasha sat between them and leaned back against Peter’s chest. Sasha resumed her attentions with the vibrator, while Peter now availed himself of both her breasts, at the same time nibbling on her neck. Sasha took her time, as usual, drawing herself almost up to orgasm before delaying it…holding the vibrator hard down against her clitoris until she could feel the tell-tale fluttering, then starting to rub it up and down to main the feeling…then finally she gave in and brought herself to climax. Behind her, Peter could feel her body shuddering with the pleasure of it.
“Now you,” she said, and she and Peter switched places. She spread her legs and Peter rested between them. He used his left hand to encircle his engorged cock, and began rubbing up and down briskly.
Sasha encircled his flat belly with her hands and massaged him as he worked. He was slouched down a bit so she could look over his head to see his hand working on his cock, and she’d lain next to him, and above him and under him, enough times to know that his eyes were closed and his cheeks pouched like a chipmunk’s as he held his breath.
“Ahhh..” he murmured. “Ahhhh.”
Then he began to shudder, and the cum came up over his hand onto his belly.
“Ah, god,” he said at last. “That was good.”
“I think we need to take another bath,” said Sasha.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Let’s go.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 16
At the close of the day, Michele relaxed in the quite comfortable bed, pillows piled up behind her, and fired up her laptop.
First she checked her email, and answered one from her sister, giving innocuous details of her trip to Australia (to comfort a friend whose husband had dumped her, was the excuse she’d given her sister as the reason for her trip to Australia). Then she checked out a few blogs connected with her business.
The first one she checked was The Miniscule Guide to Art. This blog kept track of all the art thefts throughout the world. While there wasn’t an art theft every day – at least not a major one – there was an art theft every month, and this blog gave all the facts.
Michele pulled up the blog and read the most recent article there with disbelief.
Ah, what a fortune she could have made if she’d forgotten this little game with Gus Keller and gone over to Cairo…or indeed, apparently any second or third world country with first class art museums. It appeared that museums were oysters, waiting to be plucked.
But that was just a kneejerk reaction, she knew. She’d long known of the inadequate security measures of art museums in Cairo, but she could never have done anything about them. Indeed, for decades she’d wanted to visit the pyramids, but hadn’t dared do that either.
She knew that she, as a confident, self-assured, free woman of the Western world would just be heart-broken and outraged , to walk through any Islamic city and see the women there scurrying around behind their burhkas…that is, those who were allowed outside their homes without a male escort, if any. And violence toward any man who looked askance at her uncovered head was not out of the question.
No..she couldn’t have gone, and she couldn’t go, no matter how many art objects were there for the plucking. She would continue to send generous donations to Women for Women, to assist her sisters in the Middle Eastern world, and with that she must be content.
Michele sighed heavily. After this depressing news, and the depressing images of women it conjured up, she needed cheering up.
Next she visited Volcano Seven, a blog that covered the work of treasure hunters and the treasure they looked for and occasionally found.
And her eyes did indeed light up when she read:
Sydney, where she was now, was located in New South Wales. Queensland was a state just above this one, and was the state in which Lightning Ridge, the opal mining area she and the rest of her crew would be shortly visiting, was located. How fun it would be to go to the coast afterwards and get in some scuba diving on these ship and plane wrecks. She should even go to Palau and dive among the wrecks there….
Michele nodded. It would be done.
Now, she had some erotica to write.
Dighton & Forrest had reached California, and it was time they were rappelling down the face of George Washington.
First she checked her email, and answered one from her sister, giving innocuous details of her trip to Australia (to comfort a friend whose husband had dumped her, was the excuse she’d given her sister as the reason for her trip to Australia). Then she checked out a few blogs connected with her business.
The first one she checked was The Miniscule Guide to Art. This blog kept track of all the art thefts throughout the world. While there wasn’t an art theft every day – at least not a major one – there was an art theft every month, and this blog gave all the facts.
Michele pulled up the blog and read the most recent article there with disbelief.
Alarms, cameras not working in museum
CAIRO (AP) — None of the alarms and only seven out of 43 surveillance cameras were working at a Cairo museum where a Vincent van Gogh painting was stolen, Egypt’s top prosecutor said Sunday.
Thieves made off with the canvas, known by the titles of “Poppy Flowers” and “Vase with Flowers,” on Saturday from the Mahmoud Khalil Museum in the Egyptian capital.
Prosecutor general Abdel-Meguid Mahmoud told Egypt’s state news agency Sunday that the thieves used a box cutter to remove the painting from its frame. He blamed the heist on the museum’s lax security measures, calling them “for the most part feeble and superficial.”
The museum guards’ daily rounds at closing time were inadequate and did not meet minimum security requirements to protect internationally renowned works of art, he said.
Mahmoud added that his office had warned Egypt’s museums to implement stricter security controls after nine paintings were stolen last year from another Cairo institute, the Mohammed Ali Museum. Similar security lapses were to blame in that theft.
Ah, what a fortune she could have made if she’d forgotten this little game with Gus Keller and gone over to Cairo…or indeed, apparently any second or third world country with first class art museums. It appeared that museums were oysters, waiting to be plucked.
But that was just a kneejerk reaction, she knew. She’d long known of the inadequate security measures of art museums in Cairo, but she could never have done anything about them. Indeed, for decades she’d wanted to visit the pyramids, but hadn’t dared do that either.
She knew that she, as a confident, self-assured, free woman of the Western world would just be heart-broken and outraged , to walk through any Islamic city and see the women there scurrying around behind their burhkas…that is, those who were allowed outside their homes without a male escort, if any. And violence toward any man who looked askance at her uncovered head was not out of the question.
No..she couldn’t have gone, and she couldn’t go, no matter how many art objects were there for the plucking. She would continue to send generous donations to Women for Women, to assist her sisters in the Middle Eastern world, and with that she must be content.
Michele sighed heavily. After this depressing news, and the depressing images of women it conjured up, she needed cheering up.
Next she visited Volcano Seven, a blog that covered the work of treasure hunters and the treasure they looked for and occasionally found.
And her eyes did indeed light up when she read:
State undertakes shipwreck survey
A SURVEY of Queensland’s historic shipwrecks has been launched to provide a better understanding of where the historic sites are off Queensland’s coast.
Climate Change and Sustainability Minister Kate Jones said the survey would begin in Moreton Bay and be carried out by the Heritage Branch of the Department of Environment and Resource Management.
The heritage branch has recently taken over management of Queensland’s historic shipwrecks from the Queensland Museum.
“Queensland’s coastline is littered with untold stories under the sea,” Ms Jones said.
“We know there are more than 1000 historic shipwrecks or abandoned vessels along the state’s coast, as well as in our rivers and bays. But in most cases, data on these shipwrecks is scant and often inaccurate.
“Every one of these ships is an irreplaceable archaeological site which can tell us much about the lives of past generations of Queenslanders and others who visited our shores.
“While some wrecks in the Moreton Bay area are well-known such as the Aarhus, there are approximately 50 wrecks reported in and around the Bay listed on the National Shipwreck Database.
“In many cases, the locations listed are imprecise and we know very little about the history of the individual wrecks.
“Through this survey, we will tap into the broad range of skills and equipment within our heritage and marine parks units to locate as many wrecks as possible and determine their significance.”
Ms Jones said there was a wealth of information about unidentified shipwrecks among members of the community, historical researchers and diving groups.
The first stage in this survey would be community consultation, with the department calling on members of the public, research organisations and diving groups to help build up the bank of knowledge on historic sites, starting with Moreton Bay.
“We know the people of Queensland are passionate about our underwater history – and there is a real interest in many of our shipwrecks among the diving community in particular. By working with the community we hope to build a clearer picture about the wrecks off our coast.”
The survey would also locate different types of underwater heritage objects other than shipwrecks, including aircraft.
Sydney, where she was now, was located in New South Wales. Queensland was a state just above this one, and was the state in which Lightning Ridge, the opal mining area she and the rest of her crew would be shortly visiting, was located. How fun it would be to go to the coast afterwards and get in some scuba diving on these ship and plane wrecks. She should even go to Palau and dive among the wrecks there….
Michele nodded. It would be done.
Now, she had some erotica to write.
Dighton & Forrest had reached California, and it was time they were rappelling down the face of George Washington.
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