Keller poked his head out of the bathroom.
“I neglected to bring in some fresh clothes,” he told Michele, who was sitting propped up on the bed, remote control in her hand, flicking through the channels.”Could you toss me some jeans and a shirt?”
As Michele rose and flipped open his suitcase, she mentally awarded him a gold star. She didn’t care for men she barely knew walking around in front of her in their underwear, even if they did think she thought they were cold-hearted assassins.
She picked up a pair of boxer shorts, some cargo shorts, and a black t-shirt, and carried them over to him.
“You’re a gallant,” she told him.
Keller smiled. “Put not off your clothes in the presence of others, nor go out of your chamber half dressed,” he said.
“I don’t recognize the quote?”
“George Washington’s 110 Rules to Live By,” said Keller.
Keller disappeared back into the bathroom and Michelle returned to her channel surfing, stopping when she came to a cricket match. Cricket and snooker, two sports she’d formed a fondness for in her travels. Soccer? Not so much.
Keller emerged and said, “This is a great view,” indicating the very large plate glass windows that had an excellent view over Sydney Harbor.
“Well, Keller,” said Michele. “Our first day in Sydney. We’re not going to get down to business until tomorrow, so we’ve got the day free. Shall we explore Sydney together, or did you want to retire to your own room for some shut eye?”
“I’m feeling pretty wide awake at the moment,” said Keller. “Although I expect to hit the wall in a few hours.”
Michele had thought he would. One he has asleep, she’d go back out into the city and conduct here own business. She had some people to meet, some scenarios to prepare, and she didn’t want Keller at her side while she did them….since they were going to be for his benefit.
They took the high speed elevator down to the lobby of the hotel, and took a look at the rack of brochures that beckoned to passing tourists.
“Museum of Contemporary Art?” asked Michele, and Keller nodded.
“Then the Art Gallery of New South Wales. That should be enough art for one day.”
“They look like they’re in walking distance,” mused Keller. “Or did you want to call a cab?”
Michele, in her fat suit, shrugged and looked demure. “I’ll live dangerously,” she said.
Normally Michele was an ambler, unless one of the many personas she adopted dictated otherwise. But she set a more than brisk walking pace and noted maliciously after a couple of miles that Keller was puffing slightly.
Not that she wasn’t having her own problems. She was extremely fit, and the fat suit was made of the best and lightest materials, but that didn’t change the fact that it was hot, and so was Sydney, Australia on this particular day. Her face was covered with a fine sheen of perspiration..and as for the rest of her...
“Thank god,” she said, as she spied an icecream parlor. “Let’s go in.”
They each had a banana split – a banana split is a banana split the world over – and then resumed their journey.
The museum and gallery were blissfully cool, and Michele and Keller chatted quite amiably and knowledgeably about the various pieces of art at which they looked. Then they returned to the hotel – via cab.
Keller went into his own bedroom, took off everything but his boxer shorts, and fell into bed. Michele, after giving him thirty minutes to fall well and truly asleep, went back downstairs and hailed a taxi. She told the driver the address, then sat back and relaxed.
Operation Assassinate was about to be set in motion.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
Friday, July 30, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Ch 8
Gus Keller relaxed under the shower, enjoying the feel of the hot water pelting his face, his chest, his belly. He turned around and let it drive the tenseness out of his shoulders, out of his back. After a few minutes, he stepped out of the shower but only to turn off the shower and let the tub – a very long, wide tub, fill up halfway with water. Then he sank down into its warm embrace.
His cock was floating free, and he grasped it with his right hand and began to play with it.
It had been a helluva long flight.
It had been tolerable. Apparently unusual among most people, he liked the taste of airline food. He’d also brought along some snacks of his own. So the fact that Taran Tula was eating high off the uppermost part of the hog in first class hadn’t annoyed him too much.
He’d also managed to secure a seat just in front of the bulk-head, so that had given him more leg-room. Unfortunately he found it difficult to sleep while sitting up, so he’d only gotten a couple of hours of sleep, scattered over many hours of trying. He’d had a book (Art in Australia: From Colonization to Postmodernism, by Christopher Allen) and a couple of movies on his laptop (National Treasure and The DaVinci Code), and fortunately there had been no kids on the flight – at least, none in annoying distance.
So it was just the lack of sleep, and a feeling of irritation. If he’d been the real…or perhaps he should say, a real, “Mr. Largo,” he’d’ve probably been pissed off at being relegated to economy class – not to mention having to pay his own way! – and let Taran Tula know it in no uncertain terms.
Well, he’d thought, maybe not. The woman did have a rep for shooting people who annoyed her…would a real professional assassin want to get on her bad side?
Keller sighed, wallowed in the water a bit to get the flow going over his chest and between his legs, and grasping his cock with a firmer hand began to rub it up and down, up and down.
What was he going to do, he wondered, if she expected him to help her kill someone? Would he do it, to maintain his cover? Or would he not do it? Maybe shoot and miss? And then be executed by her for being incompetent?
No…he had to go to work on her. Turn her to the good side.
She must like him…she must feel something for him..otherwise she would surely have killed him at their first meeting…
Ah, god. Keller clenched his teeth and breathed deeply. He started rubbing faster and faster…the feeling was coming…ah, god…then he was cumming, his cum spurting out over his hand and onto his belly, jerking with the waves of pleasure rolling over him…
Ended all too soon.
He washed the cum off, drained out the water and took another 30-second shower, then stepped out of the tub. He’d neglected to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with him…and he didn’t really feel like putting on his old, sweat-stained clothing.
Should he walk out into the room in his underwear – nice, unrevealing boxer shorts.
He looked at himself in the mirror…drawing in his stomach…he didn’t look too bad. Not extremely muscled, but not flabby either…
Hell…James Bond would do it. Dirk Pitt would do it. Willie Garvin would do it – not that Willie would have an ulterior motive….
Keller took a deep breath, and opened the bathroom door.
His cock was floating free, and he grasped it with his right hand and began to play with it.
It had been a helluva long flight.
It had been tolerable. Apparently unusual among most people, he liked the taste of airline food. He’d also brought along some snacks of his own. So the fact that Taran Tula was eating high off the uppermost part of the hog in first class hadn’t annoyed him too much.
He’d also managed to secure a seat just in front of the bulk-head, so that had given him more leg-room. Unfortunately he found it difficult to sleep while sitting up, so he’d only gotten a couple of hours of sleep, scattered over many hours of trying. He’d had a book (Art in Australia: From Colonization to Postmodernism, by Christopher Allen) and a couple of movies on his laptop (National Treasure and The DaVinci Code), and fortunately there had been no kids on the flight – at least, none in annoying distance.
So it was just the lack of sleep, and a feeling of irritation. If he’d been the real…or perhaps he should say, a real, “Mr. Largo,” he’d’ve probably been pissed off at being relegated to economy class – not to mention having to pay his own way! – and let Taran Tula know it in no uncertain terms.
Well, he’d thought, maybe not. The woman did have a rep for shooting people who annoyed her…would a real professional assassin want to get on her bad side?
Keller sighed, wallowed in the water a bit to get the flow going over his chest and between his legs, and grasping his cock with a firmer hand began to rub it up and down, up and down.
What was he going to do, he wondered, if she expected him to help her kill someone? Would he do it, to maintain his cover? Or would he not do it? Maybe shoot and miss? And then be executed by her for being incompetent?
No…he had to go to work on her. Turn her to the good side.
She must like him…she must feel something for him..otherwise she would surely have killed him at their first meeting…
Ah, god. Keller clenched his teeth and breathed deeply. He started rubbing faster and faster…the feeling was coming…ah, god…then he was cumming, his cum spurting out over his hand and onto his belly, jerking with the waves of pleasure rolling over him…
Ended all too soon.
He washed the cum off, drained out the water and took another 30-second shower, then stepped out of the tub. He’d neglected to bring a change of clothes into the bathroom with him…and he didn’t really feel like putting on his old, sweat-stained clothing.
Should he walk out into the room in his underwear – nice, unrevealing boxer shorts.
He looked at himself in the mirror…drawing in his stomach…he didn’t look too bad. Not extremely muscled, but not flabby either…
Hell…James Bond would do it. Dirk Pitt would do it. Willie Garvin would do it – not that Willie would have an ulterior motive….
Keller took a deep breath, and opened the bathroom door.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 7
Sydney is the largest city in Australia, but not its capital – that honor belongs to Canberra. It is located on the southeast coast of Australia, adjacent to the famous Botany Bay, where British explorer James Cook and his men first set foot on the continent, and where, several centuries later, the British founded their penal colony and “transported” people for the most minor of offenses.
The Airbus flew low over Sydney Harbor, on its descent into the airport. Michele yawned and stretched and wondered, a little sadistically, how Gus Keller was faring back in Economy Class. Well, serve him right for causing so much trouble.
She’d been a bit mealy-mouthed, she knew. She could have easily treated Keller as an equal, had him sit beside her in first class and so on, but she hadn’t wanted to be faced with the prospect of spending ten hours or more with him in such close company, so early on in the game. Besides, she’d had her writing to do and it would have been a bit embarrassing if he’d caught a glimpse of it…a cold-blooded art thief and assassin writing erotica..would probably have diminished her mystique a bit.
Miche collected her luggage – just one large suitcase on wheels, and rolled it out to the Meeting Point – a circular area full of comfy chairs, with a large incandescent chartreuse sign saying Meeting Point hovering just below the ceiling. People who were on package tours to the country met here – from the States, from the UK, from Japan and so on, and Michele saw several tour guides, each holding a staff with a banner on top revealing which tourist agency they worked for.
A few minutes after she arrived, Gus Keller walked up with his suitcase. She had expected him to , look a bit worse for wear with bleary eyes and a day’s growth of stubble, but he must have taken the time to shave, and his eyes looked bright enough.
“Good morning,” said Michele. “Not quite journey’s end, but almost. I’ve reserved us a suite at the Shangri La.”
Keller’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, “Good morning. I don’t suppose it will have a Jacuzzi?”
“Taxi stand through here,” said Michele, whose eyes had been scanning her surroundings.
They sat in silence as the cab drove them to the Shangri La. Keller leaned against the cab door, his eyes closed. Michele felt a twinge of conscience…18 hours on a plane in a cramped economy-size seat…poor guy…
Check-in at the hotel went swiftly. Michele had indeed reserved a suite – a suite with two bedrooms, one for her and one for Keller, with a living room in between. They rode up a high-speed elevator in silence, accompanied by a bellboy who carried their bags into Michele’s room.
“No jacuzzi,” noted Michele. “But that tub…you could hold a wargame in that.”
Seconds later, the sounds of running water was coming from the bathroom, and Michele was going through Keller’s suitcase. This was made easier by the fact that the new airline rules didn’t allow passengers to lock their cases – so all she had to do was open it up.
Michele was 99% sure that Keller was acting entirely on his own in his pursuit of her, but she just wanted to make sure. She searched the case for a gun, any electronic equipment like bugs and so on, and found nothing.
So, she mused, as she closed his suitcase. He was putting himself entirely in her hands.
So trusting.
So foolish.
The Airbus flew low over Sydney Harbor, on its descent into the airport. Michele yawned and stretched and wondered, a little sadistically, how Gus Keller was faring back in Economy Class. Well, serve him right for causing so much trouble.
She’d been a bit mealy-mouthed, she knew. She could have easily treated Keller as an equal, had him sit beside her in first class and so on, but she hadn’t wanted to be faced with the prospect of spending ten hours or more with him in such close company, so early on in the game. Besides, she’d had her writing to do and it would have been a bit embarrassing if he’d caught a glimpse of it…a cold-blooded art thief and assassin writing erotica..would probably have diminished her mystique a bit.
Miche collected her luggage – just one large suitcase on wheels, and rolled it out to the Meeting Point – a circular area full of comfy chairs, with a large incandescent chartreuse sign saying Meeting Point hovering just below the ceiling. People who were on package tours to the country met here – from the States, from the UK, from Japan and so on, and Michele saw several tour guides, each holding a staff with a banner on top revealing which tourist agency they worked for.
A few minutes after she arrived, Gus Keller walked up with his suitcase. She had expected him to , look a bit worse for wear with bleary eyes and a day’s growth of stubble, but he must have taken the time to shave, and his eyes looked bright enough.
“Good morning,” said Michele. “Not quite journey’s end, but almost. I’ve reserved us a suite at the Shangri La.”
Keller’s eyebrows rose, but he said only, “Good morning. I don’t suppose it will have a Jacuzzi?”
“Taxi stand through here,” said Michele, whose eyes had been scanning her surroundings.
They sat in silence as the cab drove them to the Shangri La. Keller leaned against the cab door, his eyes closed. Michele felt a twinge of conscience…18 hours on a plane in a cramped economy-size seat…poor guy…
Check-in at the hotel went swiftly. Michele had indeed reserved a suite – a suite with two bedrooms, one for her and one for Keller, with a living room in between. They rode up a high-speed elevator in silence, accompanied by a bellboy who carried their bags into Michele’s room.
“No jacuzzi,” noted Michele. “But that tub…you could hold a wargame in that.”
Seconds later, the sounds of running water was coming from the bathroom, and Michele was going through Keller’s suitcase. This was made easier by the fact that the new airline rules didn’t allow passengers to lock their cases – so all she had to do was open it up.
Michele was 99% sure that Keller was acting entirely on his own in his pursuit of her, but she just wanted to make sure. She searched the case for a gun, any electronic equipment like bugs and so on, and found nothing.
So, she mused, as she closed his suitcase. He was putting himself entirely in her hands.
So trusting.
So foolish.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Erotica By Bravo: Dighton & Forrest #5
I.
The train clattered on its way toward Keystone, South Dakota, the town at the foot of Mount Rushmore. (Sasha and Peter’s dialog of the previous day had been word for word from the movie, in which the train, the Twentieth Century Limited, had started out from Washington DC. But Sasha and Peter had been on the way to Chicago at the time, having first done their Thin Man re-enaction as their particular train had left New York.)
They were relaxing in the Observation Car, which consisted of large, comfy swivel chairs arranged in two rows, one on either side of the corridor, and curving glass windows that allowed people on either side of the car to gaze out at the scenery.
“This is the only way to travel,” mused Sasha, from her chair. Peter, from his chair, pursed his lips. They were holding hands, slouched in their comfy chairs, feet resting on the window sills.
“Too bad we don’t have our own private railway car,” he said. “So we could be sitting here with some appropriate music, enjoying the scenery, and doing a bit more than holding hands.”
Sasha grinned at him. “You’re an animal.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
II.
Well, this is a bit of a bummair,” said Peter, a few hours later.
They were standing in the Mount Rushmore Visitor Center, where they’d just been informed that they could not climb up Mt. Rushmore, let alone down it, and there was security everywhere that would prevent them from attempting to do so clandestinely.
“This’ll teach us to do a bit of research on the web before we plan these little trips,” said Sasha disconsolately.
“Well, we should have known. Can you imagine the bad publicity they’d get, if five or six people a year fell off George Washington’s head?” said Peter.
“Yeah…well, as long as we’re here, we may as well see what we can see.”
III.
“The internet is wonderful,” said Sasha later on that night. She and Peter were lying in bed. Sasha had her laptop on her knees and was surfing the web while Peter was watching The Eiger Sanction on TMC.
“What have you found?” he asked.
“The Mount Rushmore that Hitchcock had Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint climb all over in the movie. It still exists.”
“You’re kidding me!”**
“Nope. Some wealthy oilman back in the 60s fell in love with the movie, visited Hitchcock, and learned that the Rushmore set was going to be destroyed. He bought it and plumped it down in the Arizona desert, in amongst all the Joshua trees. He’s dead now, but his family’s still there, and they let people climb it.”
“For a princely sum?” asked Peter.
“No, quite reasonable. As long as people are willing to sign a gazillion papers absolving them of all blame if they fall and kill themselves, they can climb all day for a reasonable sum.”
“How many people do they let climb at a time?” asked Peter, worriedly. While Cary and Saint had not made love on Mount Rushmore during the movie, that is what Peter and Sasha intended to do…take the exhilaration engendered by climbing around on one of the country’s icons and use it to have an absolutely spectacular sexual experience. But they were neither of them exhibitionists and if there was a chance someone could rappel down on their entwined bodies it would have a rather dampening effect on the libido.
“Only one group at a time. A group being a single person, a couple or a group. So…what do you think?”
Peter grinned at her. “I think we hop the next train to Texas.”
Sasha grinned back at him. “I like the way you think.”
________________________
**Sasha isn't kidding Peter, but I, the author, am kidding you. If you want to climb a replica of Mount Rushmore, you have to go all the way to Japan to do it.
The train clattered on its way toward Keystone, South Dakota, the town at the foot of Mount Rushmore. (Sasha and Peter’s dialog of the previous day had been word for word from the movie, in which the train, the Twentieth Century Limited, had started out from Washington DC. But Sasha and Peter had been on the way to Chicago at the time, having first done their Thin Man re-enaction as their particular train had left New York.)
They were relaxing in the Observation Car, which consisted of large, comfy swivel chairs arranged in two rows, one on either side of the corridor, and curving glass windows that allowed people on either side of the car to gaze out at the scenery.
“This is the only way to travel,” mused Sasha, from her chair. Peter, from his chair, pursed his lips. They were holding hands, slouched in their comfy chairs, feet resting on the window sills.
“Too bad we don’t have our own private railway car,” he said. “So we could be sitting here with some appropriate music, enjoying the scenery, and doing a bit more than holding hands.”
Sasha grinned at him. “You’re an animal.”
He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.
II.
Well, this is a bit of a bummair,” said Peter, a few hours later.
They were standing in the Mount Rushmore Visitor Center, where they’d just been informed that they could not climb up Mt. Rushmore, let alone down it, and there was security everywhere that would prevent them from attempting to do so clandestinely.
“This’ll teach us to do a bit of research on the web before we plan these little trips,” said Sasha disconsolately.
“Well, we should have known. Can you imagine the bad publicity they’d get, if five or six people a year fell off George Washington’s head?” said Peter.
“Yeah…well, as long as we’re here, we may as well see what we can see.”
III.
“The internet is wonderful,” said Sasha later on that night. She and Peter were lying in bed. Sasha had her laptop on her knees and was surfing the web while Peter was watching The Eiger Sanction on TMC.
“What have you found?” he asked.
“The Mount Rushmore that Hitchcock had Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint climb all over in the movie. It still exists.”
“You’re kidding me!”**
“Nope. Some wealthy oilman back in the 60s fell in love with the movie, visited Hitchcock, and learned that the Rushmore set was going to be destroyed. He bought it and plumped it down in the Arizona desert, in amongst all the Joshua trees. He’s dead now, but his family’s still there, and they let people climb it.”
“For a princely sum?” asked Peter.
“No, quite reasonable. As long as people are willing to sign a gazillion papers absolving them of all blame if they fall and kill themselves, they can climb all day for a reasonable sum.”
“How many people do they let climb at a time?” asked Peter, worriedly. While Cary and Saint had not made love on Mount Rushmore during the movie, that is what Peter and Sasha intended to do…take the exhilaration engendered by climbing around on one of the country’s icons and use it to have an absolutely spectacular sexual experience. But they were neither of them exhibitionists and if there was a chance someone could rappel down on their entwined bodies it would have a rather dampening effect on the libido.
“Only one group at a time. A group being a single person, a couple or a group. So…what do you think?”
Peter grinned at her. “I think we hop the next train to Texas.”
Sasha grinned back at him. “I like the way you think.”
________________________
**Sasha isn't kidding Peter, but I, the author, am kidding you. If you want to climb a replica of Mount Rushmore, you have to go all the way to Japan to do it.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Erotica by Bravo, Dighton & Forrest #4
I.
Peter Dighton gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror at the train station. His brown hair was now a dark steely silver, which matched his blue suit and matching blue tie. The hair was also combed in Cary Grant’s style. Peter twisted this way and that. The suit fit his lithe body perfectly. The aroma of the Acqua Di Parma aftershave he wore was going to drive Sasha wild.
He came out of the bathroom and at that point saw his wife Sasha Forrest walking by. She wore a black linen jacket over a white silk scooped neck blouse that showed just the slightest décolletage, a green emerald cabochon necklace, and a severe black skirt that reached below her knees. Her platinum blond wig was shaped in a hairstyle from 1959…the same hairstyle Eva Marie Saint had worn in North by Northwest, to be precise.
Sasha walked down the train station platform to her first-class apartment alone. From his vantage point at the platform gates, Peter could see that she turned a lot of heads. Whether this was because she was so beautiful, or because she was wearing 1959-vintage clothing – with a great deal of panache- he wasn’t sure. Probably both.
After a few minutes, Peter put on a dark pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and then made his long walk down the platform. Turning no heads at all. He rubbed his cleft-less chin. Well, hell, maybe he was no Cary Grant, but he didn’t look that bad. He entered the train and settled down in the observation car, with its wide, comfy seats and curving glass windows that allowed people to see all of the scenery beyond the glass.
Originally, they’d planned to recreate this scenario exactly the way it had been done in the movie. Peter would have snuck aboard the train without a ticket, and they’d have hired a couple of actors dressed as cops to walk through the train after him. It would certainly have given the scenario a little zing. But then they’d decided they couldn’t risk it, in these terrorist-haunted times. Make the passengers nervous and they might call the real cops.
In the same vein, they’d intended to recreate the first meeting of “Roger Thornhill” and “Eve Kendall,” with him disappearing into a compartment for a few seconds and then re-emerging, but without the cops it would just be silly. So instead they were going to start with the scene in the first class dining room. Which meant he’d be occupying this observation car for another hour, before the first dinner service was announced.
II.
Peter checked his watch, then took a deep breath, rose, and headed for the first class dining car. A steward met him at the entrance. There was a slight grin on his face…Sasha must have primed him.
“Good evening, sir. One?”
“Yes, please.”
“This way.”
The steward led him to a table in the far back, where Sasha sat in solitary splendor, a cup of coffee on the snowy white linen tablecloth in front of her. The steward held out the corridor-side chair so that Peter could slip in to the window seat.
“Cocktail before dinner?” asked the steward stiltedly.
“Yes, please, a Gibson.”
“Right away.” The steward hurried away.
“Well, here we are again,” said Peter, a slight smile on his face, gazing at Sasha. She was gazing right back at him with a smirk on her lips.
“Yes,” she said in her low, husky voice.
He picked up the menu card, which one was to fill out and hand to the waiter. There were only four selections on it. “Recommend anything?” he asked.
“The brook trout. A little trouty, but quite good.”
“Sold. Brook tout.” He said this to himself while filling out his card. “There you are. Thank you.” The steward had returned with his Gibson, and then rushed away with the card. Sasha had paid him well to ensure that they wouldn’t have to wait very long for the trout to be served.
Peter picked up the martini glass – filled with cold water and garnished with a pearl onion, and sipped.
Peter looked behind him in a guilty fashion, then back at Sasha with her unnerving (or at least, it was supposed to be unnerving!) all-knowing smile.
“I know,” he said, touching his horn-rimmed glasses. “I look vaguely familiar.“
“Yes.”
“You feel you’ve seen me somewhere before.”
“Mm hm.”
“Funny how I have that effect on people. It’s something about my face.”
“It’s a nice face,” said Sasha, breathily.
Peter straightened somewhat in his chair, alertly, as if he’d just caught the scent of romance. “You think so?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
“Oh, you’re that type,” said Peter.
“What type?” asked Sasha, raising one of her delightful eyebrows.
“Honest.”
Sasha smiled, a little forlornly. “Not really.”
“Good, because honest women frighten me.”
Sasha smiled again. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Somehow they seem to put me at a disadvantage.”
“Because you’re not honest with them?”
“Exactly.” Peter leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, gazing into her eyes, alert for her reaction. “The moment I meet an attractive woman, I have to start pretending I’ve no desire to make love to her.”
Her reaction was all that he could have desired. She was not offended at all, but rather asked calmly: “What makes you think you have to conceal it?”
“She might find the idea objectionable.”
Sasha smiled. “Then again she might not.”
Peter picked up his martini glass and sipped. He gave Sasha his most charming smile. “Think how lucky I am to have been seated here.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,”said Sasha calmly.
“Fate?” asked Peter, with a slight uptilt of his chin.
“I tipped the steward five dollars to seat you here if you should come in.”
Peter’s eyes brightened…indeed, his whole face brightened. “Is that a proposition?” he asked.
“I never discuss love on an empty stomach.”
“You’ve already eaten,” said Peter, with a glance at her coffee cup.
“But you haven’t,” she said, and lifted her cup.
That was the steward’s cue. He appeared quickly, placed a plate of Brook trout in front of Peter with silent efficiency, and then vanished.
Peter took up knife and fork and began to debone the fish. He looked up from under his lowered face and said, “Don’t you think it’s time we were introduced.”
“I’m Eve Kendall. I’m 26 and unmarried. Now you know everything.“
“Tell me, what do you do besides lure men to their doom on the Twentieth Century Limited?”
“I’m an industrial designer.”
“Jack Philips. Western sales manager for Kingby Electronics.”
“No, you’re not.” Said Sasha with a slight smile. “You’re Roger Thornhill, of Madison Avenue. And you’re wanted for murder on every front page in America. Don’t be so modest.”
Peter’s tanned face hardened to teak. “Oops.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”
“How come?” demanded Peter.
“I told you. It’s a nice face.”
Peter relaxed. “Is that the only reason?” he asked softly.
“It’s going to be a long night.”
“True.”
“I don’t particularly like the book I’ve started.”
“Ah.”
“You know what I mean?”
“Let me think….” Peter raised his eyes upward as if thinking, then grinned. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
She took a cigarette pack out of her purse, pulled out a cigarette, placed it between her lips. [At this point the steward, Sasha’s $100 bill in his pocket, stood in front of the duo to block the view of the rest of the people in the dining room. Sasha had assured him that it was a fake cigarette and wouldn’t give off any smoke, so that was alright. But they'd prefer it if some irate passenger wouldn't make a fuss after seeing her light up.]
Peter pulled out a book of matches, lit one, and held it across the table to light her cigarette. She placed her hand on his while she lit her cigarette, then left it there. He started to take his hand away to blow out the match himself, but she put subtle pressure on his hand with her own, to bring it close to her own mouth, where she blew it with a long breath…sending her warm breath over his hand.
He gazed at her, while she stubbed out the fake cigarette. The steward, his favor completed, walked away again.
[They had to have that scene, thought Peter, even if it did cost them an extra $100 to bribe the steward. That was one sexy, sizzling hot romantic gesture, which people couldn’t do anymore thanks to this ridiculous ban on cigarettes in public places! Jeez, talk about sexy...he'd gotten hot just watching that scene.]
“I’d invite you to my bedroom if I had a bedroom,” Peter said.
“No roomette?”
“Nothing, not even a ticket. I’ve been playing hide and seek with the Pullman conductor ever since the train left New York.”
“How awkward for you,” said Sasha.
“Yes, isn’t it? No place to sleep.” Peter put a lot of pathos into that phrase.
“I have a large drawing room, all to myself.”
“Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?” said Peter. Then he continued. “No luggage.”
“So?”
“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of pajamas, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Sasha rose to her feet, and headed down the corridor. Peter tossed a few bills on the table as an extra tip for the steward (the meal would be charged to Sasha’s drawing room) and headed after her.
Once in Sasha’s compartment, Sasha lowered the upper bunk, and Peter climbed into it. Once stretched out on top – just a little cramped because of his six foot length in a six foot space, he said, “Tell me, why are you so good to me?” In the movie, Grant had invested that line with some humor, because he'd been closed up in the bunk for several minutes while the police searched for him.
Sasha said, “Shall I climb up and tell you why?”
Peter grinned.
At this point, the movie faded out, and faded in with Thornhill and Kendall fully dressed again, standing up and embracing and caressing and kissing. The hour or so in between was only hinted at.
Sasha slipped out of her pumps, her skirt, her blouse, her bra and panties, and then climbed up into the top bunk, where Peter had divested himself of his clothes as well, with some impressive gymnastics to do so. Now they lay side by side, with the ceiling just a few inches above their heads.
Peter pushed Sasha over onto her back and then straddled on top of her, resting his chest against her breasts, his legs on either side of hers. He started by nibbling at her neck, first one side then the other, then moving on to her ears, then finally his lips sought her mouth.
Simultaneously, he moved his knees inside her legs and nudged them apart, as his cock was standing at attention. He entered her slowly, and she arced her back a little bit at the pleasure of it. Then she chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” he murmured.
“I’m just thinking that our source material has let us down,” Sasha murmured breathily. “Surely they would have been having their fun on the lower bunk. Helluva lot more room.”
“Oh,” murmured Peter, beginning to thrust himself into her with short, economical movements. “You don’t think I can bring you to climax in this little six foot long torpedo tube?”
“Mmmm?” said Sasha, lost in the enjoyment of what he was doing. She raised her hands to the nape of his neck and began to play with the hair there, winding it around her fingers, giving it two little tugs, then releasing it to start all over. Only the closer she got to climax, the faster the windings, the quicker the tugs.
Peter enjoyed the feeling of her body beneath his, the writhings of her hips and her knees and her ankles as she sought to get him deeper into her. She was breathing heavily now, and so was he. He could feel himself ready to pop, but he didn’t want to cum too soon. They didn’t often climax together, but he wanted this to be one of those times.
Only…it was…going to be.a little…difficult…if she didn’t..start…getting…
“I’m cumming,” he told her.
“I’m almost there,” she gasped. “C’mon, c’mon.”
He started thrusting deeper and quicker, grunting now, groaning, and then he was cumming but she was shuddering with pleasure herself.
“Ah, god,” he said a few seconds later, still lying on top of her, still within her.
“That was sweet,” murmured Sasha.
“Very sweet.”
Peter Dighton gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror at the train station. His brown hair was now a dark steely silver, which matched his blue suit and matching blue tie. The hair was also combed in Cary Grant’s style. Peter twisted this way and that. The suit fit his lithe body perfectly. The aroma of the Acqua Di Parma aftershave he wore was going to drive Sasha wild.
He came out of the bathroom and at that point saw his wife Sasha Forrest walking by. She wore a black linen jacket over a white silk scooped neck blouse that showed just the slightest décolletage, a green emerald cabochon necklace, and a severe black skirt that reached below her knees. Her platinum blond wig was shaped in a hairstyle from 1959…the same hairstyle Eva Marie Saint had worn in North by Northwest, to be precise.
Sasha walked down the train station platform to her first-class apartment alone. From his vantage point at the platform gates, Peter could see that she turned a lot of heads. Whether this was because she was so beautiful, or because she was wearing 1959-vintage clothing – with a great deal of panache- he wasn’t sure. Probably both.
After a few minutes, Peter put on a dark pair of horn-rimmed glasses, and then made his long walk down the platform. Turning no heads at all. He rubbed his cleft-less chin. Well, hell, maybe he was no Cary Grant, but he didn’t look that bad. He entered the train and settled down in the observation car, with its wide, comfy seats and curving glass windows that allowed people to see all of the scenery beyond the glass.
Originally, they’d planned to recreate this scenario exactly the way it had been done in the movie. Peter would have snuck aboard the train without a ticket, and they’d have hired a couple of actors dressed as cops to walk through the train after him. It would certainly have given the scenario a little zing. But then they’d decided they couldn’t risk it, in these terrorist-haunted times. Make the passengers nervous and they might call the real cops.
In the same vein, they’d intended to recreate the first meeting of “Roger Thornhill” and “Eve Kendall,” with him disappearing into a compartment for a few seconds and then re-emerging, but without the cops it would just be silly. So instead they were going to start with the scene in the first class dining room. Which meant he’d be occupying this observation car for another hour, before the first dinner service was announced.
II.
Peter checked his watch, then took a deep breath, rose, and headed for the first class dining car. A steward met him at the entrance. There was a slight grin on his face…Sasha must have primed him.
“Good evening, sir. One?”
“Yes, please.”
“This way.”
The steward led him to a table in the far back, where Sasha sat in solitary splendor, a cup of coffee on the snowy white linen tablecloth in front of her. The steward held out the corridor-side chair so that Peter could slip in to the window seat.
“Cocktail before dinner?” asked the steward stiltedly.
“Yes, please, a Gibson.”
“Right away.” The steward hurried away.
“Well, here we are again,” said Peter, a slight smile on his face, gazing at Sasha. She was gazing right back at him with a smirk on her lips.
“Yes,” she said in her low, husky voice.
He picked up the menu card, which one was to fill out and hand to the waiter. There were only four selections on it. “Recommend anything?” he asked.
“The brook trout. A little trouty, but quite good.”
“Sold. Brook tout.” He said this to himself while filling out his card. “There you are. Thank you.” The steward had returned with his Gibson, and then rushed away with the card. Sasha had paid him well to ensure that they wouldn’t have to wait very long for the trout to be served.
Peter picked up the martini glass – filled with cold water and garnished with a pearl onion, and sipped.
Peter looked behind him in a guilty fashion, then back at Sasha with her unnerving (or at least, it was supposed to be unnerving!) all-knowing smile.
“I know,” he said, touching his horn-rimmed glasses. “I look vaguely familiar.“
“Yes.”
“You feel you’ve seen me somewhere before.”
“Mm hm.”
“Funny how I have that effect on people. It’s something about my face.”
“It’s a nice face,” said Sasha, breathily.
Peter straightened somewhat in his chair, alertly, as if he’d just caught the scent of romance. “You think so?” he asked.
“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t.”
“Oh, you’re that type,” said Peter.
“What type?” asked Sasha, raising one of her delightful eyebrows.
“Honest.”
Sasha smiled, a little forlornly. “Not really.”
“Good, because honest women frighten me.”
Sasha smiled again. “Why?”
“I don’t know. Somehow they seem to put me at a disadvantage.”
“Because you’re not honest with them?”
“Exactly.” Peter leaned forward, almost imperceptibly, gazing into her eyes, alert for her reaction. “The moment I meet an attractive woman, I have to start pretending I’ve no desire to make love to her.”
Her reaction was all that he could have desired. She was not offended at all, but rather asked calmly: “What makes you think you have to conceal it?”
“She might find the idea objectionable.”
Sasha smiled. “Then again she might not.”
Peter picked up his martini glass and sipped. He gave Sasha his most charming smile. “Think how lucky I am to have been seated here.”
“Luck had nothing to do with it,”said Sasha calmly.
“Fate?” asked Peter, with a slight uptilt of his chin.
“I tipped the steward five dollars to seat you here if you should come in.”
Peter’s eyes brightened…indeed, his whole face brightened. “Is that a proposition?” he asked.
“I never discuss love on an empty stomach.”
“You’ve already eaten,” said Peter, with a glance at her coffee cup.
“But you haven’t,” she said, and lifted her cup.
That was the steward’s cue. He appeared quickly, placed a plate of Brook trout in front of Peter with silent efficiency, and then vanished.
Peter took up knife and fork and began to debone the fish. He looked up from under his lowered face and said, “Don’t you think it’s time we were introduced.”
“I’m Eve Kendall. I’m 26 and unmarried. Now you know everything.“
“Tell me, what do you do besides lure men to their doom on the Twentieth Century Limited?”
“I’m an industrial designer.”
“Jack Philips. Western sales manager for Kingby Electronics.”
“No, you’re not.” Said Sasha with a slight smile. “You’re Roger Thornhill, of Madison Avenue. And you’re wanted for murder on every front page in America. Don’t be so modest.”
Peter’s tanned face hardened to teak. “Oops.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t say a word.”
“How come?” demanded Peter.
“I told you. It’s a nice face.”
Peter relaxed. “Is that the only reason?” he asked softly.
“It’s going to be a long night.”
“True.”
“I don’t particularly like the book I’ve started.”
“Ah.”
“You know what I mean?”
“Let me think….” Peter raised his eyes upward as if thinking, then grinned. “Yes, I know exactly what you mean.”
She took a cigarette pack out of her purse, pulled out a cigarette, placed it between her lips. [At this point the steward, Sasha’s $100 bill in his pocket, stood in front of the duo to block the view of the rest of the people in the dining room. Sasha had assured him that it was a fake cigarette and wouldn’t give off any smoke, so that was alright. But they'd prefer it if some irate passenger wouldn't make a fuss after seeing her light up.]
Peter pulled out a book of matches, lit one, and held it across the table to light her cigarette. She placed her hand on his while she lit her cigarette, then left it there. He started to take his hand away to blow out the match himself, but she put subtle pressure on his hand with her own, to bring it close to her own mouth, where she blew it with a long breath…sending her warm breath over his hand.
He gazed at her, while she stubbed out the fake cigarette. The steward, his favor completed, walked away again.
[They had to have that scene, thought Peter, even if it did cost them an extra $100 to bribe the steward. That was one sexy, sizzling hot romantic gesture, which people couldn’t do anymore thanks to this ridiculous ban on cigarettes in public places! Jeez, talk about sexy...he'd gotten hot just watching that scene.]
“I’d invite you to my bedroom if I had a bedroom,” Peter said.
“No roomette?”
“Nothing, not even a ticket. I’ve been playing hide and seek with the Pullman conductor ever since the train left New York.”
“How awkward for you,” said Sasha.
“Yes, isn’t it? No place to sleep.” Peter put a lot of pathos into that phrase.
“I have a large drawing room, all to myself.”
“Doesn’t seem quite fair, does it?” said Peter. Then he continued. “No luggage.”
“So?”
“Well, you wouldn’t happen to have an extra pair of pajamas, would you?”
“Wouldn’t I?”
Sasha rose to her feet, and headed down the corridor. Peter tossed a few bills on the table as an extra tip for the steward (the meal would be charged to Sasha’s drawing room) and headed after her.
Once in Sasha’s compartment, Sasha lowered the upper bunk, and Peter climbed into it. Once stretched out on top – just a little cramped because of his six foot length in a six foot space, he said, “Tell me, why are you so good to me?” In the movie, Grant had invested that line with some humor, because he'd been closed up in the bunk for several minutes while the police searched for him.
Sasha said, “Shall I climb up and tell you why?”
Peter grinned.
At this point, the movie faded out, and faded in with Thornhill and Kendall fully dressed again, standing up and embracing and caressing and kissing. The hour or so in between was only hinted at.
Sasha slipped out of her pumps, her skirt, her blouse, her bra and panties, and then climbed up into the top bunk, where Peter had divested himself of his clothes as well, with some impressive gymnastics to do so. Now they lay side by side, with the ceiling just a few inches above their heads.
Peter pushed Sasha over onto her back and then straddled on top of her, resting his chest against her breasts, his legs on either side of hers. He started by nibbling at her neck, first one side then the other, then moving on to her ears, then finally his lips sought her mouth.
Simultaneously, he moved his knees inside her legs and nudged them apart, as his cock was standing at attention. He entered her slowly, and she arced her back a little bit at the pleasure of it. Then she chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” he murmured.
“I’m just thinking that our source material has let us down,” Sasha murmured breathily. “Surely they would have been having their fun on the lower bunk. Helluva lot more room.”
“Oh,” murmured Peter, beginning to thrust himself into her with short, economical movements. “You don’t think I can bring you to climax in this little six foot long torpedo tube?”
“Mmmm?” said Sasha, lost in the enjoyment of what he was doing. She raised her hands to the nape of his neck and began to play with the hair there, winding it around her fingers, giving it two little tugs, then releasing it to start all over. Only the closer she got to climax, the faster the windings, the quicker the tugs.
Peter enjoyed the feeling of her body beneath his, the writhings of her hips and her knees and her ankles as she sought to get him deeper into her. She was breathing heavily now, and so was he. He could feel himself ready to pop, but he didn’t want to cum too soon. They didn’t often climax together, but he wanted this to be one of those times.
Only…it was…going to be.a little…difficult…if she didn’t..start…getting…
“I’m cumming,” he told her.
“I’m almost there,” she gasped. “C’mon, c’mon.”
He started thrusting deeper and quicker, grunting now, groaning, and then he was cumming but she was shuddering with pleasure herself.
“Ah, god,” he said a few seconds later, still lying on top of her, still within her.
“That was sweet,” murmured Sasha.
“Very sweet.”
Friday, July 23, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Ch 6
I.
Michele Bravo walked through customs her normal, lithe self. With the full-body scanners they used these days, she knew she’d never get through in her fat-suit, and there was no need to even try. Once through customs, however, she pulled it out of her carryon bag and put it on.
She walked to the gate where the passengers for flight 612 to Sydney, Australia were foregathered. She gazed over the people there. There…there he was.
Michele smiled a slight smile. He was game, she’d give him that. He was seated in a chair near the plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac, headphones covering his ears, reading a book…she squinted…Terry Pratchett’s Thief of Time. Hmm. A Terry Pratchett fan. Well, that was one entry in the ‘let him live’ column…the world needed more Terry Pratchett fans.
She walked up to him. “Mr. Largo.”
He looked up quickly, grabbed off his headphones. “Miss Tula.”
“I don’t like to call you Mr. Largo. What is your real name?”
“Keller,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “And you are…Michele Bravo.”
She grinned. “If it pleases you to think so. I prefer you to call me Tula.”
“As you wish.”
“You’re in economy class?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, with a shrug, offering no explanation or excuse. She liked that. But she didn’t envy him the journey. Hopefully he wouldn’t find himself seated next to a crying baby or something of that nature.
She nodded. “You’re sensible. I’m in First Class, however. I will meet you in Sydney. The airport has a location called The Meeting Point. I will see you there. I will cover your expenses while we are in Australia, never fear.”
He nodded.
“Very well. Le Chelonian Mobile, Mr. Keller,” and she turned and walked away.
Gus Keller looked after her. The Turtle Moves? Was she a Terry Pratchett fan too?
He returned to his book, feeling a little better about things.
Michele mused as she walked into the First Class lounge. He had told her his real name, without prevarication. An amateur's mistake.
II.
From New York, there is no non-stop service to Sydney, Australia. One must first fly across the USA to Los Angeles, CA, and from there board a connecting flight to fly southwest across the Pacific Ocean to Sydney.
It’s a long flight, but it doesn’t feel so long when you’re travelling in the luxury that is first class. The flight from New York to LAX took about six hours. Michele spent the time watching North by Northwest on her laptop. Then, because she still wasn’t feeling the creative bug, she also watched To Catch a Thief.
At the LAX airport, Michele did not seek out Keller but rather relaxed in the lounge that catered to first class passengers only.
Finally it was time for the flight to Sydney to take off. After the plane had climbed to 37,000 feet and leveled off, Michele took her laptop into the first class lounge to begin work. After a few minutes, she went into the first class lavatory.
It was huge..like the bathroom in a hotel suite. In addition to everything else one expected to find in a lavatory, there was a lot of room…and a couch. Clearly the designers had decided to cater to those people who wanted to join the Mile High Club.
Michele gazed at the couch speculatively.
As a writer of erotica, there were two places where she never intended any of her characters to get it on. One was in the back or front seat of a car, the other was in the lavatory of a plane in flight. Both of them catered to the pleasure of the guy, who could have an orgasm anywhere…but how the hell was a woman supposed to get comfortable in those locations? There was no way.
But here…here…in the first class toilet of an Airbus 380…this changed things.
She might have to rethink her decision.
But first …time to get Dighton and Forrest into George Washington’s nose.
Michele Bravo walked through customs her normal, lithe self. With the full-body scanners they used these days, she knew she’d never get through in her fat-suit, and there was no need to even try. Once through customs, however, she pulled it out of her carryon bag and put it on.
She walked to the gate where the passengers for flight 612 to Sydney, Australia were foregathered. She gazed over the people there. There…there he was.
Michele smiled a slight smile. He was game, she’d give him that. He was seated in a chair near the plate glass windows overlooking the tarmac, headphones covering his ears, reading a book…she squinted…Terry Pratchett’s Thief of Time. Hmm. A Terry Pratchett fan. Well, that was one entry in the ‘let him live’ column…the world needed more Terry Pratchett fans.
She walked up to him. “Mr. Largo.”
He looked up quickly, grabbed off his headphones. “Miss Tula.”
“I don’t like to call you Mr. Largo. What is your real name?”
“Keller,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “And you are…Michele Bravo.”
She grinned. “If it pleases you to think so. I prefer you to call me Tula.”
“As you wish.”
“You’re in economy class?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said, with a shrug, offering no explanation or excuse. She liked that. But she didn’t envy him the journey. Hopefully he wouldn’t find himself seated next to a crying baby or something of that nature.
She nodded. “You’re sensible. I’m in First Class, however. I will meet you in Sydney. The airport has a location called The Meeting Point. I will see you there. I will cover your expenses while we are in Australia, never fear.”
He nodded.
“Very well. Le Chelonian Mobile, Mr. Keller,” and she turned and walked away.
Gus Keller looked after her. The Turtle Moves? Was she a Terry Pratchett fan too?
He returned to his book, feeling a little better about things.
Michele mused as she walked into the First Class lounge. He had told her his real name, without prevarication. An amateur's mistake.
II.
From New York, there is no non-stop service to Sydney, Australia. One must first fly across the USA to Los Angeles, CA, and from there board a connecting flight to fly southwest across the Pacific Ocean to Sydney.
It’s a long flight, but it doesn’t feel so long when you’re travelling in the luxury that is first class. The flight from New York to LAX took about six hours. Michele spent the time watching North by Northwest on her laptop. Then, because she still wasn’t feeling the creative bug, she also watched To Catch a Thief.
At the LAX airport, Michele did not seek out Keller but rather relaxed in the lounge that catered to first class passengers only.
Finally it was time for the flight to Sydney to take off. After the plane had climbed to 37,000 feet and leveled off, Michele took her laptop into the first class lounge to begin work. After a few minutes, she went into the first class lavatory.
It was huge..like the bathroom in a hotel suite. In addition to everything else one expected to find in a lavatory, there was a lot of room…and a couch. Clearly the designers had decided to cater to those people who wanted to join the Mile High Club.
Michele gazed at the couch speculatively.
As a writer of erotica, there were two places where she never intended any of her characters to get it on. One was in the back or front seat of a car, the other was in the lavatory of a plane in flight. Both of them catered to the pleasure of the guy, who could have an orgasm anywhere…but how the hell was a woman supposed to get comfortable in those locations? There was no way.
But here…here…in the first class toilet of an Airbus 380…this changed things.
She might have to rethink her decision.
But first …time to get Dighton and Forrest into George Washington’s nose.
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Ch 5
After completing her packing, Michele turned on the TV, arranged a bottle of water and the remote control convenient to her Stairmaster, then got on the machine and started it up.
She really should be working on the next Dighton & Forrest chapter of her erotica serial, which was to take place atop Mount Rushmore. She knew her readers were looking forward to it with baited breath…but at the moment her creative juices were flowing more toward her Australia Assassination scenario than her North by Northwest re-enaction scenario.
For now, she watched Ice Age on TNT. This is what she always did when she needed to think creatively: watch some movie or TV show that she’d seen dozens of times before and knew by heart. She could then pay attention to it with only part of her brain, leaving the rest of it free to go roaming into her own creative universe, where the ideas lay dormant until quietly nudged away by a thought, an aroma, a sound. Tonight, on the plane, when she watched Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint, not to mention the delectable James Mason, the ideas would be flying thick and fast…but now she was more in the mood to give some thought to her Australian Assassination scenario.
The problem with watching Ice Age on TNT, Michelle soon thought, was that one also had to watch seemingly a gazillion commercials, every five minutes. Yes, she muted them immediately, but they still took one directly out of the movie.
One of the commercials was a trailer for the movie Scott Pilgrim Vs the World. She didn’t have the sound on, so she really couldn’t tell what it was about, but it looked like it was about the usual. Some twenty-ish geek was suddenly thrust into a life or death situation and despite the fact that he had no training whatsoever, he was able to prevail against the professionals.
Those types of movies annoyed her no end. Even the new series Covert Affairs, featuring a female heroine, had done the same thing. The character Annie Walker had been in CIA training – training – and all of a sudden because of her linguistic skills she was taken out of training and thrust into a real life job, with lives depending on her. How stupid was that? (Especially since the SCD had done the same thing with Keller, as her Spindrift Security agent Gil McAdoo had found out for her.)
And that was the problem. Real world professionals saw these movies and TV shows, though to themselves, “Well, heck, if can turn out all right in fiction it’s sure to turn out all right in real life. Let’s make this Gus Keller guy, a total novice who just happens to speak German and know about the Entartete Kunst, pretend to be a cold blooded professional assassin in order to trap a real cold-blooded professional assassin, Taran Tula. She’s a woman, she’ll fall for him if nothing else.”
“Hah!” said Michele aloud. “Hah!”
They were damn lucky she hadn’t killed their false Mr. Largo when she’d had the chance.
And now what was happening?
This Gus Keller guy had somehow ferreted out her identity because she’d left behind a fingerprint (and that had been rather careless of her, to be sure). Instead of getting as much help as possible from his agency, he was going after her alone. He, a rookie with no experience, was going after her, and thought he could capture her without help?
Michele laughed.
On the other hand…now they were showing a trailer for The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Now, she’d seen that movie and liked it, for all that the young lead, Jay Baruchel, was way to young and wimpy for her, and his nasal voice had gotten on her nerves. Whereas Nicolas Cage…whew baby. Nice long black leather coat, stylish clothes and shoes...whereas Baruchel's character was the typical sloppy three layers of over-size shirts all hanging out over ill-fitting pants.
But that was the way she was, Michele thought. When she’d seen him in Raising Arizona and Moonstruck she hadn’t been impressed at all. Too young, too callow. But when she’d seen him in the Rock, whew baby. Both him and Sean Connery.
Michele laughed at her own inconsistency. Okay, so the plot of The Rock should have annoyed her, with a desk-jockey like Cage’s character going out into the real world and being able to defeat the baddies, but hey, at least he’d had Sean Connery with him to help.
It was too bad, really, that Cage didn’t visit William Shatner and learn some tips on how to find and wear a toupee that was not only undetectable but also made you look good…
Back to the matter at hand.
She was going to take Gus Keller for the ride of his life, teach him a lesson about messing with professionals. And then…well…she she still had to decide what the …and then was to be.
She had killed people, it was true. A couple of rapists, a murderer..people who’d deserved to die. She’d never had to kill to keep her multiple identities safe before…
She'd worked hard to set up the Taran Tula identity as a cold-blooded assassin, taking money from the highest bidder to kill anyone whom someone else wanted dead. That had only been her cover. The bodies that “rumor” had said she’d killed…most of them weren’t hers. But nobody knew that. For all Gus Keller knew, she’d toss a little old lady off a bridge without compunction.
And he thought he could trap her on his own?
That was downright insulting.
Michele powered off the Stairmaster and drank down the rest of her water.
She was going to enjoy the next week or two.
She really should be working on the next Dighton & Forrest chapter of her erotica serial, which was to take place atop Mount Rushmore. She knew her readers were looking forward to it with baited breath…but at the moment her creative juices were flowing more toward her Australia Assassination scenario than her North by Northwest re-enaction scenario.
For now, she watched Ice Age on TNT. This is what she always did when she needed to think creatively: watch some movie or TV show that she’d seen dozens of times before and knew by heart. She could then pay attention to it with only part of her brain, leaving the rest of it free to go roaming into her own creative universe, where the ideas lay dormant until quietly nudged away by a thought, an aroma, a sound. Tonight, on the plane, when she watched Cary Grant and Eva Marie Saint, not to mention the delectable James Mason, the ideas would be flying thick and fast…but now she was more in the mood to give some thought to her Australian Assassination scenario.
The problem with watching Ice Age on TNT, Michelle soon thought, was that one also had to watch seemingly a gazillion commercials, every five minutes. Yes, she muted them immediately, but they still took one directly out of the movie.
One of the commercials was a trailer for the movie Scott Pilgrim Vs the World. She didn’t have the sound on, so she really couldn’t tell what it was about, but it looked like it was about the usual. Some twenty-ish geek was suddenly thrust into a life or death situation and despite the fact that he had no training whatsoever, he was able to prevail against the professionals.
Those types of movies annoyed her no end. Even the new series Covert Affairs, featuring a female heroine, had done the same thing. The character Annie Walker had been in CIA training – training – and all of a sudden because of her linguistic skills she was taken out of training and thrust into a real life job, with lives depending on her. How stupid was that? (Especially since the SCD had done the same thing with Keller, as her Spindrift Security agent Gil McAdoo had found out for her.)
And that was the problem. Real world professionals saw these movies and TV shows, though to themselves, “Well, heck, if can turn out all right in fiction it’s sure to turn out all right in real life. Let’s make this Gus Keller guy, a total novice who just happens to speak German and know about the Entartete Kunst, pretend to be a cold blooded professional assassin in order to trap a real cold-blooded professional assassin, Taran Tula. She’s a woman, she’ll fall for him if nothing else.”
“Hah!” said Michele aloud. “Hah!”
They were damn lucky she hadn’t killed their false Mr. Largo when she’d had the chance.
And now what was happening?
This Gus Keller guy had somehow ferreted out her identity because she’d left behind a fingerprint (and that had been rather careless of her, to be sure). Instead of getting as much help as possible from his agency, he was going after her alone. He, a rookie with no experience, was going after her, and thought he could capture her without help?
Michele laughed.
On the other hand…now they were showing a trailer for The Sorcerer’s Apprentice. Now, she’d seen that movie and liked it, for all that the young lead, Jay Baruchel, was way to young and wimpy for her, and his nasal voice had gotten on her nerves. Whereas Nicolas Cage…whew baby. Nice long black leather coat, stylish clothes and shoes...whereas Baruchel's character was the typical sloppy three layers of over-size shirts all hanging out over ill-fitting pants.
But that was the way she was, Michele thought. When she’d seen him in Raising Arizona and Moonstruck she hadn’t been impressed at all. Too young, too callow. But when she’d seen him in the Rock, whew baby. Both him and Sean Connery.
Michele laughed at her own inconsistency. Okay, so the plot of The Rock should have annoyed her, with a desk-jockey like Cage’s character going out into the real world and being able to defeat the baddies, but hey, at least he’d had Sean Connery with him to help.
It was too bad, really, that Cage didn’t visit William Shatner and learn some tips on how to find and wear a toupee that was not only undetectable but also made you look good…
Back to the matter at hand.
She was going to take Gus Keller for the ride of his life, teach him a lesson about messing with professionals. And then…well…she she still had to decide what the …and then was to be.
She had killed people, it was true. A couple of rapists, a murderer..people who’d deserved to die. She’d never had to kill to keep her multiple identities safe before…
She'd worked hard to set up the Taran Tula identity as a cold-blooded assassin, taking money from the highest bidder to kill anyone whom someone else wanted dead. That had only been her cover. The bodies that “rumor” had said she’d killed…most of them weren’t hers. But nobody knew that. For all Gus Keller knew, she’d toss a little old lady off a bridge without compunction.
And he thought he could trap her on his own?
That was downright insulting.
Michele powered off the Stairmaster and drank down the rest of her water.
She was going to enjoy the next week or two.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, ch 4
I.
Gus Keller lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and swore softly to himself. He’d been snookered. Michele Bravo had blogged that she was returning to her home because of a family emergency. He’d staked out her home for five days, and no one had gone in or out of it.
She was Taran Tula, he knew it. And she’d snookered him again.
Unless…unless…when she’d said she was “returning home,” she’d meant to the family home? Instead of to her own home. Could it be as simple as that?
He took another drag on his cigarette, and then his heart stopped and he forgot to breathe.
Someone was standing by the passenger side door.
A woman.
A fat woman.
She bent down, looking at him through the glass. It was Taran Tula.
Mouth dry, he leaned over and unlocked the door.
She opened it and got in.
“If this had been a movie,” she said in an Italian accent, “you would have left that door unlocked, so I could have climbed right in, pointed a gun at you, and said, ‘Drive.’ You have destroyed the dramatic flow of this scene before it even began.”
“Do you have a gun?” asked Keller.
She smiled. “I always have a gun. Do you have a gun?”
“I…yes.”
“Very good. Do you have your suitcase?”
“My…suitcase?”
“Yes, Mr. Largo, your suitcase. If you are going to interest yourself in my business, you should be prepared to travel at any moment.”
“I…yes…that’s true…but I…”
“Do not distress yourself, Mr. Largo. You will not make the mistake a second time, I am sure. I am leaving for Sydney, Australia tonight. The 5 pm flight out of Newark. I expect you to be on the same flight. We have business to conduct there, you and I.”
“The Entarte Kunst business?” Keller said desperately. “That’s got nothing to do with Australia!”
“No, and I regret my precipitate departure from that job. Have your employers sent you here to chastise me?”
“Uh….no.”
She raised a hand to his cheek and caressed it. “Then you alone wish to chastise me?”
“I…uh….yes. It…it wasn’t very professional of you…”
“Neither was the replacement of one Mr. Largo with another. I should have been informed of the change prior to our meeting.”
“Well,” Keller lifted his hands helplessly. What did she mean? Was the Mr. Largo identity like the dread pirate Rogers, assumed by whoever was strong enough to wrest the title away from another? Could she not know that he was in law enforcement? Did she still think he was a professional assassin?
“Well, what?” she demanded.
“I was given the job. And the name. I wasn’t told why or how it came about.”
She nodded. “Very true. The minions, they are given the jobs, but on a need-to-know basis. And I suppose you lost quite a bit of money when the job fell through. Well, I will make it up to you with this job in Australia. It will be very profitable. And you will see a true professional in action.”
“And this job…is it as an art thief…or as an assassin?”
She smiled at him. “I said we both have business there, Mr. Largo. If you wish. So. Will you be on the plane at 5?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
She caressed his cheek again. “Ciao, Mr. Largo.”
She got out of the car, and waved at him to leave. She wanted him to drive off…and she was just standing there…why wasn’t she going into her house?
Keller did as he was bid, watching her out of the rear view mirror as he drove away. In her turn, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. Not into her house..or rather into Michele Bravo’s house. Was she not Michele Bravo then? But how had she known where he was ….what he was doing?
Enough of that. Australia. She wanted him to go with her to Australia? To assassinate someone?
Should he inform his superiors?
No. He was on a job, that’s all they knew and all they needed to know. If he needed help, he’d call them in.
Australia, he thought again. Assassination. She'd looked so...so attractive...but she must be so cold blooded...
He looked at his dashboard clock. Only a few hours before 5. He had to get home and start to pack!
Keller floored the accelerator.
II.
Michele Bravo walked all the way down the block. She had her compact out and by tilting it covertly she was able to watch as Keller’s car disappear around a corner. Immediately she crossed to the other side of the street, went into her house, popped open a can of Pepsi from the fridge, and began her own packing for Australia.
Into her laptop case she popped a few DVDs, including one of North by Northwest. She needed to brush up on it.
As for Gus Keller…the SCD had sent an inexperienced agent to her, to play the part of a hired assassin. She would take him on the ride of his life, before...well, before deciding what to do with him.
She drank Pepsi, and she smiled. Revenge, as someone had once said, was a dessert best served cold.
Gus Keller lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and swore softly to himself. He’d been snookered. Michele Bravo had blogged that she was returning to her home because of a family emergency. He’d staked out her home for five days, and no one had gone in or out of it.
She was Taran Tula, he knew it. And she’d snookered him again.
Unless…unless…when she’d said she was “returning home,” she’d meant to the family home? Instead of to her own home. Could it be as simple as that?
He took another drag on his cigarette, and then his heart stopped and he forgot to breathe.
Someone was standing by the passenger side door.
A woman.
A fat woman.
She bent down, looking at him through the glass. It was Taran Tula.
Mouth dry, he leaned over and unlocked the door.
She opened it and got in.
“If this had been a movie,” she said in an Italian accent, “you would have left that door unlocked, so I could have climbed right in, pointed a gun at you, and said, ‘Drive.’ You have destroyed the dramatic flow of this scene before it even began.”
“Do you have a gun?” asked Keller.
She smiled. “I always have a gun. Do you have a gun?”
“I…yes.”
“Very good. Do you have your suitcase?”
“My…suitcase?”
“Yes, Mr. Largo, your suitcase. If you are going to interest yourself in my business, you should be prepared to travel at any moment.”
“I…yes…that’s true…but I…”
“Do not distress yourself, Mr. Largo. You will not make the mistake a second time, I am sure. I am leaving for Sydney, Australia tonight. The 5 pm flight out of Newark. I expect you to be on the same flight. We have business to conduct there, you and I.”
“The Entarte Kunst business?” Keller said desperately. “That’s got nothing to do with Australia!”
“No, and I regret my precipitate departure from that job. Have your employers sent you here to chastise me?”
“Uh….no.”
She raised a hand to his cheek and caressed it. “Then you alone wish to chastise me?”
“I…uh….yes. It…it wasn’t very professional of you…”
“Neither was the replacement of one Mr. Largo with another. I should have been informed of the change prior to our meeting.”
“Well,” Keller lifted his hands helplessly. What did she mean? Was the Mr. Largo identity like the dread pirate Rogers, assumed by whoever was strong enough to wrest the title away from another? Could she not know that he was in law enforcement? Did she still think he was a professional assassin?
“Well, what?” she demanded.
“I was given the job. And the name. I wasn’t told why or how it came about.”
She nodded. “Very true. The minions, they are given the jobs, but on a need-to-know basis. And I suppose you lost quite a bit of money when the job fell through. Well, I will make it up to you with this job in Australia. It will be very profitable. And you will see a true professional in action.”
“And this job…is it as an art thief…or as an assassin?”
She smiled at him. “I said we both have business there, Mr. Largo. If you wish. So. Will you be on the plane at 5?”
“Yes,” he said. “I’ll be there.”
She caressed his cheek again. “Ciao, Mr. Largo.”
She got out of the car, and waved at him to leave. She wanted him to drive off…and she was just standing there…why wasn’t she going into her house?
Keller did as he was bid, watching her out of the rear view mirror as he drove away. In her turn, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. Not into her house..or rather into Michele Bravo’s house. Was she not Michele Bravo then? But how had she known where he was ….what he was doing?
Enough of that. Australia. She wanted him to go with her to Australia? To assassinate someone?
Should he inform his superiors?
No. He was on a job, that’s all they knew and all they needed to know. If he needed help, he’d call them in.
Australia, he thought again. Assassination. She'd looked so...so attractive...but she must be so cold blooded...
He looked at his dashboard clock. Only a few hours before 5. He had to get home and start to pack!
Keller floored the accelerator.
II.
Michele Bravo walked all the way down the block. She had her compact out and by tilting it covertly she was able to watch as Keller’s car disappear around a corner. Immediately she crossed to the other side of the street, went into her house, popped open a can of Pepsi from the fridge, and began her own packing for Australia.
Into her laptop case she popped a few DVDs, including one of North by Northwest. She needed to brush up on it.
As for Gus Keller…the SCD had sent an inexperienced agent to her, to play the part of a hired assassin. She would take him on the ride of his life, before...well, before deciding what to do with him.
She drank Pepsi, and she smiled. Revenge, as someone had once said, was a dessert best served cold.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Ch 3
I.
The next morning went as Michele had imagined it. She and Fitz took a long shower together, then she gave Fitz a massage and he reciprocated, and when she’d finished his massage they’d made love.
Afterwards, Michele said, “This has been a great couple of weeks, Fitz. I’ll have to visit you more often.”
“My door is always open for you.”
“Well, I’ll treat you to lunch at the fanciest restaurant in town, then we’ll start the long drive back to Fredericksburg.”
“Will you stay the night?”
“Depends on when we get there. If it’s early enough, I’ll keep on driving to New York. I’ve got places to go, things to do tomorrow.”
II.
They drove back in companionable silence. Fitz had only signed on for two weeks – that’s all the time he could get away from his job. Michele had intended to spend a couple more weeks touring the area, but the little problem of Gus Keller now took precedence. Although she believed that he was a maverick, pursuing some vendetta on his own, she was not going to stand for him hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles. She was going to take steps to take care of him. All she had to decide was how severe those steps were going to be.
Meantime, she drove without speaking. She had put a CD-R of Simon Bovey’s The Voice of God in the CD player, and they listened to the haunting Australian aborigine music and the tenseness of the story with enjoyment.
While radio drama in the United States had died on September 30, 1962, when the last episodes of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar and the anthology series Suspense were aired, in the UK the media had never faltered and indeed was still going strong. And thanks to digital radio and BBC7, Americans and indeed, anyone with a computer, could listen to both old-time and current British radio drama, comedy and science fiction.
One of the authors of new radio dramas that Michelle rather liked was Simon Bovey. She’d enjoyed his Cold Blood very much, about scientists in the Antarctic and the experiment conducted there that got out of hand, and although she’d recorded The Voice of God, she hadn’t yet had a chance to listen to it. (The thing about BBC Radio 7 is that even if you miss a show, it will be repeated three months later down the line.)
The premise of this drama was that a mad scientist (was there any other kind?) had perfected a sound weapon that would bring peace to earth. There was only one problem…using it also caused devastating earthquakes.
Somewhere in her subconscious, as consciously Michele listened to and enjoyed the program, she began to think… Australia. Remote. Very remote.
III.
Modesty Blaise, a fictional character created by Peter O’Donnell in 1963, and long one of Michele’s role models, had a sidekick, Willie Garvin, who was always talking about “the flux.” It was “the magnetic flux about the earth that causes like events to occur simultaneously or in sequence,” and explained coincidences, such as someone thinking of another person whom they hadn’t thought of for 30 years, only to arrive home to find a letter from that person talking about the good old days. In other words, it was a scientific explanation for coincidences.
Such it was with Michele Bravo. The Voice of God had put Australia into her mind, and when she spent that evening in Fitz’s apartment – deciding she’d arrived too late in Fredericksburg and opting to remain the night instead of driving on to New York – she watched a documentary with Fitz that he had chosen, on Lightning Ridge, the most famous producer – and indeed almost the only producer – of black opal in the world. She found the history of opal intriguing, and the mining of it fascinating.
Opal was a living gem, famed for its play of color..rainblow flashes of color which glint when the opal is twisted this way or that to catch the light.
Unfortunately, Americans rarely saw the best opal gems…buyers from China and Asia snapped them up. To get the best, you had to go to Lightning Ridge yourself…which was like a Wild West town – miners gathered in a café or bar, showing the material they’d unearthed that day, and people with cash made their offers.
Michele nodded to herself.
Australia, she thought. That’s where she wanted to go, and that’s where she and Gus Keller would have their little show down. How fitting..a Wild West town for a Wild West showdown.
The next morning went as Michele had imagined it. She and Fitz took a long shower together, then she gave Fitz a massage and he reciprocated, and when she’d finished his massage they’d made love.
Afterwards, Michele said, “This has been a great couple of weeks, Fitz. I’ll have to visit you more often.”
“My door is always open for you.”
“Well, I’ll treat you to lunch at the fanciest restaurant in town, then we’ll start the long drive back to Fredericksburg.”
“Will you stay the night?”
“Depends on when we get there. If it’s early enough, I’ll keep on driving to New York. I’ve got places to go, things to do tomorrow.”
II.
They drove back in companionable silence. Fitz had only signed on for two weeks – that’s all the time he could get away from his job. Michele had intended to spend a couple more weeks touring the area, but the little problem of Gus Keller now took precedence. Although she believed that he was a maverick, pursuing some vendetta on his own, she was not going to stand for him hanging over her head like the sword of Damocles. She was going to take steps to take care of him. All she had to decide was how severe those steps were going to be.
Meantime, she drove without speaking. She had put a CD-R of Simon Bovey’s The Voice of God in the CD player, and they listened to the haunting Australian aborigine music and the tenseness of the story with enjoyment.
While radio drama in the United States had died on September 30, 1962, when the last episodes of Yours Truly, Johnny Dollar and the anthology series Suspense were aired, in the UK the media had never faltered and indeed was still going strong. And thanks to digital radio and BBC7, Americans and indeed, anyone with a computer, could listen to both old-time and current British radio drama, comedy and science fiction.
One of the authors of new radio dramas that Michelle rather liked was Simon Bovey. She’d enjoyed his Cold Blood very much, about scientists in the Antarctic and the experiment conducted there that got out of hand, and although she’d recorded The Voice of God, she hadn’t yet had a chance to listen to it. (The thing about BBC Radio 7 is that even if you miss a show, it will be repeated three months later down the line.)
The premise of this drama was that a mad scientist (was there any other kind?) had perfected a sound weapon that would bring peace to earth. There was only one problem…using it also caused devastating earthquakes.
Somewhere in her subconscious, as consciously Michele listened to and enjoyed the program, she began to think… Australia. Remote. Very remote.
III.
Modesty Blaise, a fictional character created by Peter O’Donnell in 1963, and long one of Michele’s role models, had a sidekick, Willie Garvin, who was always talking about “the flux.” It was “the magnetic flux about the earth that causes like events to occur simultaneously or in sequence,” and explained coincidences, such as someone thinking of another person whom they hadn’t thought of for 30 years, only to arrive home to find a letter from that person talking about the good old days. In other words, it was a scientific explanation for coincidences.
Such it was with Michele Bravo. The Voice of God had put Australia into her mind, and when she spent that evening in Fitz’s apartment – deciding she’d arrived too late in Fredericksburg and opting to remain the night instead of driving on to New York – she watched a documentary with Fitz that he had chosen, on Lightning Ridge, the most famous producer – and indeed almost the only producer – of black opal in the world. She found the history of opal intriguing, and the mining of it fascinating.
Opal was a living gem, famed for its play of color..rainblow flashes of color which glint when the opal is twisted this way or that to catch the light.
Unfortunately, Americans rarely saw the best opal gems…buyers from China and Asia snapped them up. To get the best, you had to go to Lightning Ridge yourself…which was like a Wild West town – miners gathered in a café or bar, showing the material they’d unearthed that day, and people with cash made their offers.
Michele nodded to herself.
Australia, she thought. That’s where she wanted to go, and that’s where she and Gus Keller would have their little show down. How fitting..a Wild West town for a Wild West showdown.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Ch 2
Michele had been bouting with some fencing students. When class started, they all gathered round their instructor, while Michele returned to Fitz’s side. He looked at her disconsolately.
“I don’t like this real fencing,” he said. “It’s not a patch on the stuff you see in movies.”
“I agree with you,” said Michele. “Movie fencing is incredibly sexy. Real fencing…it’s just good exercise.”
Fitz looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, movie fencing is sexy?”
“Well, I think it is. I always have. When I was a kid I watched all those old movies. Robin Hood, Mark of Zorro, Captain Blood…”
“You had a crush on Errol Flynn, didn’t you,” agreed Fitz, nodding.
“Not at all,” said Michele indignantly. “I had a crush on Basil Rathbone! But it wasn’t only him. Stewart Granger in Scaramouche, Stewart Granger and James Mason in Prisoner of Zenda…Harvey Keitel in The Duelists…”
Fitz chuckled. “I never knew you were a fencing groupie.”
Michele grinned. “Yeah…I used to videotape all those duels. I’d watch all these movies, and just tape the fencing scenes. Then, I’d watch that collection while I…you know.”
Fitz stated at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. You can keep your romantic small talk, and your soft music and your sexy lighting. Want to get me in the mood? Put a copy of the duel from Princess Bride on the TV.”
“Well, then,” said Fitz in a breathy voice. “Are you in the mood now?”
“Not yet,” said Michele with a grin. “Like you said, real fencing isn’t erotic, it’s just a workout. But movie fencing…”
"Actually," said Fitz, "that's kind of weird, isn't it? I mean, two guys fencing..."
Michelle laughed. "Well, but it wasn't two guys fencing, you see. It was me against Rathbone. Or Mason. Or Depp. I was the opponent. Each duel was like a courtship, you see? They'd try to break through my defenses, I'd rebuff their advances...they'd persist, I'd resist, until ultimately..." she lunged, "Right through the heart."
She paused, then grinned again. “Hey, Fitz. How’d you like to learn to fence? Just enough so that we could do a little duel, movie fencing wise. I’ll choreograph it.”
“Sure, said Fitz. “Well, there’s plenty of room here. Do you think they’ll mind if we work on this while they’re having their class?”
“Can’t hurt to ask,” said Michele. She went over to the fencing instructor, who had set his five students to some advance-retreat-lunge drills across the very long floor, and made her request. “Go for it,” he replied….”Over in that corner, though, okay?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Dancing studios, gyms and fencing halls all have one thing in common…they are very long, with wide open spaces, and at least one wall is completely covered, floor to ceiling, with mirrors. This is so people practicing their advances, lunges, retreats and ballestras can ensure that they are keeping good form.
Michele and Fitz walked over to the far corner.
“First off, let’s learn some terminology and proper form,” said Michele. “I’ll show you the basics, and then choreograph a very simple duel.”
“Okay,” said Fitz, taking his foil and swishing it through the air a few times, as he’d seen them do in his movies.
“Okay, first of all there’s the stance. Crouch down a bit, with your weight centered between your legs. Your back leg has your foot pointing side to side, and your front leg has your foot pointing forward. Hold yourt back arm out beside you, fingers pointing up in the air. That’s so you don’t get it hit by an errant foil. Bend your sword arm slightly…”
She demonstrated, and Fitz followed suit.
“Right. Now, we advance. Step forward with your lead leg, then bring your back leg up just enough to maintain the same distance between the two.”
“Easy,” said Fitz, nodding, and advancing.
“Very good. Now to retreat, you just reverse the process. Back leg moves first, then the front leg.”
Fitz retreated a few steps.
“Very good,” said Michele. “Now, just for the hell of it, let’s do a simple exercise. We’ll advance two steps, and retreat once, then advance twice, and then retreat. Keep your right arm up…yeah, like that…and hold the foil a little higher than parallel to the ground.”
She and Fitz went, side by side, down the piste for several yards. Then Michele stopped. “Now, if we were really learning fencing, we’d do that from one end of the floor to the other, and back again. Great for the legs, and great way to learn patience, too.
But since we’re doing this for only one reason…”
“A very good reason,” put in Fitz.
“Let me show you how to do a lunge,” continued Michele.
Fitz watched carefully as she settled down into the fencing stance, then extended her arm and in one motion lifted her front leg and stretched it forward, keeping her back leg stiff, so that in her finishing stance her arm was extended directly over her thigh, and her front thigh was parallel to the ground. She checked her form in the mirror, then recovered to a normal stance again.
“You see how that works?” she said. “You extend the foil, then you step out with your front foot. Back foot doesn’t move, like this… then you recover to the same position.” She demonstrated again, and Fitz followed suit.
“So now,” said Michele, “let’s advance twice, lunge, and recover backward. Then we’ll advance twice, lunge, and recover forward.”
They practiced this for a bit. Then Michele said, “Very good. Okay, now we’re ready to get the foil into the mix.”
She extended her foil arm straight out, aiming at an invisible opponent. “This is a thrust,” she said. “Now, I’m going to block that thrust, with a parry. I hit your blade out of line with my own, either to the left or right. Now, in real fencing, that’s done with mostly wrist action, but for our movie duel, it’s mostly forearm action. Then, I riposte. That means that after I’ve just knocked your blade out of line, I then thrust at you myself. I either hit you, or you parry my blade and try a riposte yourself.”
“Got it,” said Fitz.
“Okay, let’s put it together.”
Michele moved around to face Fitz on one of the pistes, a series of mats taped together for 60 feet, each mat 6 feet wide. In competition, fencers could not step off the back of the mats, nor could they step off the sides. In movie duels, of course, they could go wherever they wanted – onto chairs, swing from chandeliers, and so on.
“Do a lunge for me,” Michele requested.
Fitz complied, and Michele stepped in front of the point of the blade that he was endeavoring to hold still.
“This is your fencing distance,” explained Michele. “That’s the distance that it would take you to lunge and hit any opponent. You always want to stay within fencing distance. And of course since I’m a couple of inches shorter than you, my fencing distance is also shorter than yours. So you’ll have the advantage of me. At least you would, if you weren’t a complete neophyte and I weren’t a master fencer.”
They exchanged grins.
Then, their foils met, and Michele enjoyed the metallic sound of blade on blade. She directed Fitz in his attacks, telling him to lunge here, parry here, riposte there, and Fitz was a quick learner and athletic with it, so soon he was giving a pretty good account of himself.
“Finally, the piece de resistance,” said Michele. “You double-dyed villain, you. You lunge in close to me, forcing me back against the wall, and the hilts of our sword lock. You mutter something like, ‘I have you now.’ I grit my teeth, say something like, ‘Not yet, you swine,’ and summoning all my strength I push you back. You do that sword swishy thingy, but I lunge forward and skewer you.”
Fitz completed this final maneuver, backing Michele against the glass-fronted wall, using his strength to keep her trapped. “You’re mine,” he hissed, “all mine.”
“Not today!” Michele cried, and shoved him backward. She didn’t use all her strength (she didn’t want Fitz to know how strong she really was – she didn’t want anybody to know how strong she really was, or how skilled in the various martial arts) and Fitz cooperated by staggering theatrically backward. Then he brought his sword down very quickly with a sweep of his arm, making a swooshing noise so beloved of movie choreographers, and while he was making that very broad movement, Michele lunged and placed her foil right on his chest.
He staggered back theatrically again, dropped to one knee, clutched both hands to his heart, and then fell over.
Michele applauded his performance, and he got to his feet with a grin.
“Okay,” said Michele, “I think we’re ready to go through the whole duel. It’s too bad. What we really need is a boombox and Loreena McKennitt’s "Tango to Evora". That’s the music for two lovers to play while they’re having a fencing duel.
“We’ll have to be better prepared next time,” said Fitz.
“Yeah. Well, here we go.”
They began the duel that Michele had choreographed…borrowing much from Tyrone Power’s duel with Rathbone in Mark of Zorro if truth be told, going slowly, with Michele counting out the moves if Fitz showed any signs of faltering.
And it was getting her hot, there was no doubt about that. The metallic sound of blade on blade, the sheer elegance of the mask-covered face and the body, the menace and the grace…
There was only one problem…
The fencing hall, or salle as it should more properly be called, didn’t have showers. So Michele and Fitz expressed their thanks to the instructor and took their leave. They returned to Michele’s car, strapped themselves in, and looked at each other.
“Those lunges really take it out of you,” said Fitz. “My legs feel like noodles.”
Michele, who’d been bouting or an hour before working out with Fitz, nodded. “I’m pretty tired, too. It’s been over a year since I did any fencing, and the muscles used in lunging…they aren’t used every day, even if you are in good shape.”
“I gotta tell you,” said Fitz, as they walked into their B&B room. “And it’s something I never thought I’d say…I’m too pooped to pop.”
“Et tu, Brute,” said Michele. Then, “Wait, that’s not right. I mean, me too.”
“I’m too tired to even take a shower.”
Such it was, therefore, that five minutes later Fitz and Michele had stripped, fallen into bed and were fast asleep.
The next day, though, Michele knew, would bring long hot showers, mutual massages, and perhaps a little morning delight…
“I don’t like this real fencing,” he said. “It’s not a patch on the stuff you see in movies.”
“I agree with you,” said Michele. “Movie fencing is incredibly sexy. Real fencing…it’s just good exercise.”
Fitz looked at her, puzzled. “What do you mean, movie fencing is sexy?”
“Well, I think it is. I always have. When I was a kid I watched all those old movies. Robin Hood, Mark of Zorro, Captain Blood…”
“You had a crush on Errol Flynn, didn’t you,” agreed Fitz, nodding.
“Not at all,” said Michele indignantly. “I had a crush on Basil Rathbone! But it wasn’t only him. Stewart Granger in Scaramouche, Stewart Granger and James Mason in Prisoner of Zenda…Harvey Keitel in The Duelists…”
Fitz chuckled. “I never knew you were a fencing groupie.”
Michele grinned. “Yeah…I used to videotape all those duels. I’d watch all these movies, and just tape the fencing scenes. Then, I’d watch that collection while I…you know.”
Fitz stated at her. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. You can keep your romantic small talk, and your soft music and your sexy lighting. Want to get me in the mood? Put a copy of the duel from Princess Bride on the TV.”
“Well, then,” said Fitz in a breathy voice. “Are you in the mood now?”
“Not yet,” said Michele with a grin. “Like you said, real fencing isn’t erotic, it’s just a workout. But movie fencing…”
"Actually," said Fitz, "that's kind of weird, isn't it? I mean, two guys fencing..."
Michelle laughed. "Well, but it wasn't two guys fencing, you see. It was me against Rathbone. Or Mason. Or Depp. I was the opponent. Each duel was like a courtship, you see? They'd try to break through my defenses, I'd rebuff their advances...they'd persist, I'd resist, until ultimately..." she lunged, "Right through the heart."
She paused, then grinned again. “Hey, Fitz. How’d you like to learn to fence? Just enough so that we could do a little duel, movie fencing wise. I’ll choreograph it.”
“Sure, said Fitz. “Well, there’s plenty of room here. Do you think they’ll mind if we work on this while they’re having their class?”
“Can’t hurt to ask,” said Michele. She went over to the fencing instructor, who had set his five students to some advance-retreat-lunge drills across the very long floor, and made her request. “Go for it,” he replied….”Over in that corner, though, okay?”
“Sure, thanks.”
Dancing studios, gyms and fencing halls all have one thing in common…they are very long, with wide open spaces, and at least one wall is completely covered, floor to ceiling, with mirrors. This is so people practicing their advances, lunges, retreats and ballestras can ensure that they are keeping good form.
Michele and Fitz walked over to the far corner.
“First off, let’s learn some terminology and proper form,” said Michele. “I’ll show you the basics, and then choreograph a very simple duel.”
“Okay,” said Fitz, taking his foil and swishing it through the air a few times, as he’d seen them do in his movies.
“Okay, first of all there’s the stance. Crouch down a bit, with your weight centered between your legs. Your back leg has your foot pointing side to side, and your front leg has your foot pointing forward. Hold yourt back arm out beside you, fingers pointing up in the air. That’s so you don’t get it hit by an errant foil. Bend your sword arm slightly…”
She demonstrated, and Fitz followed suit.
“Right. Now, we advance. Step forward with your lead leg, then bring your back leg up just enough to maintain the same distance between the two.”
“Easy,” said Fitz, nodding, and advancing.
“Very good. Now to retreat, you just reverse the process. Back leg moves first, then the front leg.”
Fitz retreated a few steps.
“Very good,” said Michele. “Now, just for the hell of it, let’s do a simple exercise. We’ll advance two steps, and retreat once, then advance twice, and then retreat. Keep your right arm up…yeah, like that…and hold the foil a little higher than parallel to the ground.”
She and Fitz went, side by side, down the piste for several yards. Then Michele stopped. “Now, if we were really learning fencing, we’d do that from one end of the floor to the other, and back again. Great for the legs, and great way to learn patience, too.
But since we’re doing this for only one reason…”
“A very good reason,” put in Fitz.
“Let me show you how to do a lunge,” continued Michele.
Fitz watched carefully as she settled down into the fencing stance, then extended her arm and in one motion lifted her front leg and stretched it forward, keeping her back leg stiff, so that in her finishing stance her arm was extended directly over her thigh, and her front thigh was parallel to the ground. She checked her form in the mirror, then recovered to a normal stance again.
“You see how that works?” she said. “You extend the foil, then you step out with your front foot. Back foot doesn’t move, like this… then you recover to the same position.” She demonstrated again, and Fitz followed suit.
“So now,” said Michele, “let’s advance twice, lunge, and recover backward. Then we’ll advance twice, lunge, and recover forward.”
They practiced this for a bit. Then Michele said, “Very good. Okay, now we’re ready to get the foil into the mix.”
She extended her foil arm straight out, aiming at an invisible opponent. “This is a thrust,” she said. “Now, I’m going to block that thrust, with a parry. I hit your blade out of line with my own, either to the left or right. Now, in real fencing, that’s done with mostly wrist action, but for our movie duel, it’s mostly forearm action. Then, I riposte. That means that after I’ve just knocked your blade out of line, I then thrust at you myself. I either hit you, or you parry my blade and try a riposte yourself.”
“Got it,” said Fitz.
“Okay, let’s put it together.”
Michele moved around to face Fitz on one of the pistes, a series of mats taped together for 60 feet, each mat 6 feet wide. In competition, fencers could not step off the back of the mats, nor could they step off the sides. In movie duels, of course, they could go wherever they wanted – onto chairs, swing from chandeliers, and so on.
“Do a lunge for me,” Michele requested.
Fitz complied, and Michele stepped in front of the point of the blade that he was endeavoring to hold still.
“This is your fencing distance,” explained Michele. “That’s the distance that it would take you to lunge and hit any opponent. You always want to stay within fencing distance. And of course since I’m a couple of inches shorter than you, my fencing distance is also shorter than yours. So you’ll have the advantage of me. At least you would, if you weren’t a complete neophyte and I weren’t a master fencer.”
They exchanged grins.
Then, their foils met, and Michele enjoyed the metallic sound of blade on blade. She directed Fitz in his attacks, telling him to lunge here, parry here, riposte there, and Fitz was a quick learner and athletic with it, so soon he was giving a pretty good account of himself.
“Finally, the piece de resistance,” said Michele. “You double-dyed villain, you. You lunge in close to me, forcing me back against the wall, and the hilts of our sword lock. You mutter something like, ‘I have you now.’ I grit my teeth, say something like, ‘Not yet, you swine,’ and summoning all my strength I push you back. You do that sword swishy thingy, but I lunge forward and skewer you.”
Fitz completed this final maneuver, backing Michele against the glass-fronted wall, using his strength to keep her trapped. “You’re mine,” he hissed, “all mine.”
“Not today!” Michele cried, and shoved him backward. She didn’t use all her strength (she didn’t want Fitz to know how strong she really was – she didn’t want anybody to know how strong she really was, or how skilled in the various martial arts) and Fitz cooperated by staggering theatrically backward. Then he brought his sword down very quickly with a sweep of his arm, making a swooshing noise so beloved of movie choreographers, and while he was making that very broad movement, Michele lunged and placed her foil right on his chest.
He staggered back theatrically again, dropped to one knee, clutched both hands to his heart, and then fell over.
Michele applauded his performance, and he got to his feet with a grin.
“Okay,” said Michele, “I think we’re ready to go through the whole duel. It’s too bad. What we really need is a boombox and Loreena McKennitt’s "Tango to Evora". That’s the music for two lovers to play while they’re having a fencing duel.
“We’ll have to be better prepared next time,” said Fitz.
“Yeah. Well, here we go.”
They began the duel that Michele had choreographed…borrowing much from Tyrone Power’s duel with Rathbone in Mark of Zorro if truth be told, going slowly, with Michele counting out the moves if Fitz showed any signs of faltering.
And it was getting her hot, there was no doubt about that. The metallic sound of blade on blade, the sheer elegance of the mask-covered face and the body, the menace and the grace…
There was only one problem…
The fencing hall, or salle as it should more properly be called, didn’t have showers. So Michele and Fitz expressed their thanks to the instructor and took their leave. They returned to Michele’s car, strapped themselves in, and looked at each other.
“Those lunges really take it out of you,” said Fitz. “My legs feel like noodles.”
Michele, who’d been bouting or an hour before working out with Fitz, nodded. “I’m pretty tired, too. It’s been over a year since I did any fencing, and the muscles used in lunging…they aren’t used every day, even if you are in good shape.”
“I gotta tell you,” said Fitz, as they walked into their B&B room. “And it’s something I never thought I’d say…I’m too pooped to pop.”
“Et tu, Brute,” said Michele. Then, “Wait, that’s not right. I mean, me too.”
“I’m too tired to even take a shower.”
Such it was, therefore, that five minutes later Fitz and Michele had stripped, fallen into bed and were fast asleep.
The next day, though, Michele knew, would bring long hot showers, mutual massages, and perhaps a little morning delight…
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Sunday recap
For the benefit of those who missed the beginning chapter of Erotica By Bravo (I'm not sure how far back Kindle archives go - 5 pages worth at least, I'm sure, but is that far enough?)
Michele Bravo, in her identity as Taran Tula, freelance assassin and art thief, was summoned to a meeting at a casino hotel in Minnesota. She was needed because of her expertise in speaking German, and knowledge of the Entartete Kunst, artwork by such artists as Vincent Van Gogh, Picasso, etc., declared degenerate by the Nazis before and during WWII, and confiscated by the Nazis to decorate their own homes. Some famous and valuable artwork were destroyed in bonfires...but were they destroyed or were they hidden by fanatical collectors, ready to be found today?
This turns out to be a moot point, because Michele's contact, a man called Mr. Largo, is a man whom Michele knows. Imagine her surprise when the contact at the hotel, calling himself Mr. Largo, turns out to be a fake. She quickly makes her escape, leaving the false Mr. Largo behind, and alive, to avoid complications, and decides she must retire the Taran Tula identity.
Gus Keller, the man who played Mr. Largo, is a rookie Special Crimes Division agent, pressed into the role of Largo because he too speaks German and is an art expert, and also knows about the Entartete Kunst. Keller believes that Taran Tula is a vicious killer, and thinks that she didn't kill him because she fell in love with him....much as he did with her.
So now Keller on his own has tracked down Michele Bravo via a fingerprint she carelessly left on a spoon she'd been using to eat an icecream sundae. He's in love, Michele's emotions...are conflicted. Death for him, or possible dishonor for her.
What is she going to do? Why, play with fire.
Michele Bravo, in her identity as Taran Tula, freelance assassin and art thief, was summoned to a meeting at a casino hotel in Minnesota. She was needed because of her expertise in speaking German, and knowledge of the Entartete Kunst, artwork by such artists as Vincent Van Gogh, Picasso, etc., declared degenerate by the Nazis before and during WWII, and confiscated by the Nazis to decorate their own homes. Some famous and valuable artwork were destroyed in bonfires...but were they destroyed or were they hidden by fanatical collectors, ready to be found today?
This turns out to be a moot point, because Michele's contact, a man called Mr. Largo, is a man whom Michele knows. Imagine her surprise when the contact at the hotel, calling himself Mr. Largo, turns out to be a fake. She quickly makes her escape, leaving the false Mr. Largo behind, and alive, to avoid complications, and decides she must retire the Taran Tula identity.
Gus Keller, the man who played Mr. Largo, is a rookie Special Crimes Division agent, pressed into the role of Largo because he too speaks German and is an art expert, and also knows about the Entartete Kunst. Keller believes that Taran Tula is a vicious killer, and thinks that she didn't kill him because she fell in love with him....much as he did with her.
So now Keller on his own has tracked down Michele Bravo via a fingerprint she carelessly left on a spoon she'd been using to eat an icecream sundae. He's in love, Michele's emotions...are conflicted. Death for him, or possible dishonor for her.
What is she going to do? Why, play with fire.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Ch 1
I.
Gilbert McAdoo was a top operative in the Spindrift Security Company which was run by Michele Bravo. She had tasked him with staking out her house and finding out if anyone else were staking it out, and if so, who they worked for.
McAdoo took his team – the Spindrift Security sent out teams of three people on any particular job – to the streets, and within a week had discovered what Michelle wanted to know.
The other two members of his team were Drake and Vasquez. Those weren’t their real names, but he’d nicknamed them that after they’d started working together, after the duo from the movie Aliens. Both of them shared a deep affection and love for each other. It was a platonic love, for Vasquez was a lesbian and Drake was straight, but they both took their job very seriously and they spent their spare time working out together. They were like one person, split in two.
He hadn’t told them whose house they were staking out, of course. All they knew was that a client was being observed clandestinely, and they needed to find out who was doing the observing.
Gilbert, on the other hand, did know whose house the man was staking out, and the identity of the man made him nervous. Why would the Special Crimes Division be checking up on his boss, Michele Bravo? On the other hand, as he was about to call Michele and tell her, this guy did not seem to be working with anyone from SCD. He was on his own…perhaps he was just stalking her…
If so….he grinned…Michele could handle him easily.
McAdoo sat in his office, idly playing with his Newton's Cradle (that iconic executive’s toy which consists of five identically sized metal balls suspended in a metal frame so that they are just touching each other at rest. Each ball was attached to the frame by two wires of equal length angled away from each other. Set the end one swinging, and it hits its fellows and sets the ball on the other end of the frame swinging.)
He knew Michele was in Virginia, doing what, he didn’t know. He wished he did. He’d’ve liked to have visited her in person, using as his excuse the fact that the information he had was so important. Hell, he’d take any excuse to see her…she was soooo attractive and he’d had a crush on her for soooo long. And he was her favorite, he knew. Favorite operative, that was. She always seemed to choose him for the most delicate of jobs…he wondered if that meant anything…if she felt attracted to him, too.
Moot point – he didn’t know where she was, so he’d just have to call her on her cell.
McAdoo sighed, stilled the Newton’s Cradle, and dialed her number.
There was a brief delay, and then her voice came. “Bravo here. Speak.”
She sounded out of breath. He could hear her breathing hard over the phone. God that was hot.
McAdoo pulled himself together. He knew she knew who was calling, she’d have him on caller ID. Neverthless he said, “McAdoo here. I’ve got the info you wanted.”
“Very good, Gil. What’s the verdict?”
“A guy named Gus Keller has staked out the place for the last week. Pretty much of an amateur, for all that he works for the Special Crimes Division. He’s worked there about a year. He’s in the Art and Antiquities branch.”
“What do you mean, he’s an amateur?”
“Well, what I really meant is it’s just him. No one else from the SCD seems to be involved in the stakeout. I don’t need to tell you that if this were an official SCD operation they’d have a dozen operatives surrounding your house, ad it would’ve been a lot more difficult to spot them.”
“Ye-es…. Well, Gil, I recognize the name, and I know what this is about.” (Michele lied smoothly.) “I had a run-in with this guy several months ago when a client hired me to find his missing Matisse. I probably embarrassed him with his superiors when I found it before he did. So now he wants to try to find some dirt on me. Strange way of going about it, though.” (She said it before it could occur to Gil to think it.)
“Yeah,” said Gil. “Well, what would you like me to do? Lean on the guy?”
“No, thank you, Gil. I’ll handle this my own way. Keep up your surveillance of him until I tell you to stop. And continue to be discreet about it. I don’t want him making you.”
“Will do.”
“Very good, Gil. Thanks for your good work. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
II.
Michele hung up the phone and took a deep, calming breath.
She was feeling pretty relieved.
So, this Gus Keller had been the false Mr. Largo. And she probably had embarrassed him with his superiors when she’d disappeared as she had. But to learn that he’d been working for the SCD for only a year…that was pretty insulting. Did they think a rookie could have tracked down and captured the great Taran Tula?
So, she’d embarrassed him, and he was out for revenge. But how could he possibly have found out who she was?
She closed her eyes, replaying in her mind everything that had happened in their two brief meetings. And then she had it.
Michele twisted her hand as though she were holding a spoon. Most of her fingers were curled over…wouldn’t give a fingerprint, but her thumb would. And she’d been eating a hot fudge sundae, the last time the two of them had talked. Was it possible that he’d appropriated that spoon? Got her thumbprint off it?
And instead of rushing to his superiors with it, he was working the case on his own. He thought that he, one man, could capture Taran Tula???
Well. Well, well, well, thought Michele.
III.
“Michele,” called Fitz. “Everything okay?”
Michele quickly put her cellphone in her pocket and returned to the piste. “Sorry, Fitz. Now, where were we?”
She spoke this not to Fitz but to the young man with whom she’d been bouting.
She and Fitz had been driving through the Amberson town center when she’d seen a fencing salon. Mindful of her lack of exercise over the last three weeks, she’d stopped in, borrowed mask, jacket and French foil, and been bouting with some of the students.
She and her opponent put on their masks once more, saluted, and went to it.
Gilbert McAdoo was a top operative in the Spindrift Security Company which was run by Michele Bravo. She had tasked him with staking out her house and finding out if anyone else were staking it out, and if so, who they worked for.
McAdoo took his team – the Spindrift Security sent out teams of three people on any particular job – to the streets, and within a week had discovered what Michelle wanted to know.
The other two members of his team were Drake and Vasquez. Those weren’t their real names, but he’d nicknamed them that after they’d started working together, after the duo from the movie Aliens. Both of them shared a deep affection and love for each other. It was a platonic love, for Vasquez was a lesbian and Drake was straight, but they both took their job very seriously and they spent their spare time working out together. They were like one person, split in two.
He hadn’t told them whose house they were staking out, of course. All they knew was that a client was being observed clandestinely, and they needed to find out who was doing the observing.
Gilbert, on the other hand, did know whose house the man was staking out, and the identity of the man made him nervous. Why would the Special Crimes Division be checking up on his boss, Michele Bravo? On the other hand, as he was about to call Michele and tell her, this guy did not seem to be working with anyone from SCD. He was on his own…perhaps he was just stalking her…
If so….he grinned…Michele could handle him easily.
McAdoo sat in his office, idly playing with his Newton's Cradle (that iconic executive’s toy which consists of five identically sized metal balls suspended in a metal frame so that they are just touching each other at rest. Each ball was attached to the frame by two wires of equal length angled away from each other. Set the end one swinging, and it hits its fellows and sets the ball on the other end of the frame swinging.)
He knew Michele was in Virginia, doing what, he didn’t know. He wished he did. He’d’ve liked to have visited her in person, using as his excuse the fact that the information he had was so important. Hell, he’d take any excuse to see her…she was soooo attractive and he’d had a crush on her for soooo long. And he was her favorite, he knew. Favorite operative, that was. She always seemed to choose him for the most delicate of jobs…he wondered if that meant anything…if she felt attracted to him, too.
Moot point – he didn’t know where she was, so he’d just have to call her on her cell.
McAdoo sighed, stilled the Newton’s Cradle, and dialed her number.
There was a brief delay, and then her voice came. “Bravo here. Speak.”
She sounded out of breath. He could hear her breathing hard over the phone. God that was hot.
McAdoo pulled himself together. He knew she knew who was calling, she’d have him on caller ID. Neverthless he said, “McAdoo here. I’ve got the info you wanted.”
“Very good, Gil. What’s the verdict?”
“A guy named Gus Keller has staked out the place for the last week. Pretty much of an amateur, for all that he works for the Special Crimes Division. He’s worked there about a year. He’s in the Art and Antiquities branch.”
“What do you mean, he’s an amateur?”
“Well, what I really meant is it’s just him. No one else from the SCD seems to be involved in the stakeout. I don’t need to tell you that if this were an official SCD operation they’d have a dozen operatives surrounding your house, ad it would’ve been a lot more difficult to spot them.”
“Ye-es…. Well, Gil, I recognize the name, and I know what this is about.” (Michele lied smoothly.) “I had a run-in with this guy several months ago when a client hired me to find his missing Matisse. I probably embarrassed him with his superiors when I found it before he did. So now he wants to try to find some dirt on me. Strange way of going about it, though.” (She said it before it could occur to Gil to think it.)
“Yeah,” said Gil. “Well, what would you like me to do? Lean on the guy?”
“No, thank you, Gil. I’ll handle this my own way. Keep up your surveillance of him until I tell you to stop. And continue to be discreet about it. I don’t want him making you.”
“Will do.”
“Very good, Gil. Thanks for your good work. I’ll be back in touch soon.”
II.
Michele hung up the phone and took a deep, calming breath.
She was feeling pretty relieved.
So, this Gus Keller had been the false Mr. Largo. And she probably had embarrassed him with his superiors when she’d disappeared as she had. But to learn that he’d been working for the SCD for only a year…that was pretty insulting. Did they think a rookie could have tracked down and captured the great Taran Tula?
So, she’d embarrassed him, and he was out for revenge. But how could he possibly have found out who she was?
She closed her eyes, replaying in her mind everything that had happened in their two brief meetings. And then she had it.
Michele twisted her hand as though she were holding a spoon. Most of her fingers were curled over…wouldn’t give a fingerprint, but her thumb would. And she’d been eating a hot fudge sundae, the last time the two of them had talked. Was it possible that he’d appropriated that spoon? Got her thumbprint off it?
And instead of rushing to his superiors with it, he was working the case on his own. He thought that he, one man, could capture Taran Tula???
Well. Well, well, well, thought Michele.
III.
“Michele,” called Fitz. “Everything okay?”
Michele quickly put her cellphone in her pocket and returned to the piste. “Sorry, Fitz. Now, where were we?”
She spoke this not to Fitz but to the young man with whom she’d been bouting.
She and Fitz had been driving through the Amberson town center when she’d seen a fencing salon. Mindful of her lack of exercise over the last three weeks, she’d stopped in, borrowed mask, jacket and French foil, and been bouting with some of the students.
She and her opponent put on their masks once more, saluted, and went to it.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Intermission
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King is now complete.
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire begins Saturday, July 17.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, ch 13
Michele Bravo pulled on her cargo shorts. They felt a bit tight, and she swore. This is what came of two weeks of travelling, with no biking or other exercise (so much for sex being a great form of exercise), and perhaps more egregiously, having hot chocolate sundaes for dessert after lunch as well as after dinner.
Well, she’d still been in the need for comfort food after the shock of the false Mr. Largo. And now he’d shown up again. By rights she should treat herself to a peanut buster parfait, but she’d have to resist. And tomorrow she’d have to buy a collapsible bike so she could get in some exercise during the rest of this trip. She was also a member of a health club chain that was supposed to have outlets everywhere…she’d better start looking for those, too, so she could get in a little swimming and a little weight training. She’d been allowing herself to slack off for too long.
Well, hell, she thought. She’d just got handed another shock – a worse one – the false Mr. Largo might know her identity – her real identity – as Michele Bravo. If that didn’t call for comfort food nothing would. She’d go have that buster bar parfait and give up on her desserts for lunch starting tomorrow.
“Feel like a Dairy Queen, Fitz?” she asked. “My treat.”
Fitz looked up from his computer. “No thanks. Are you having ice cream cravings?”
“Yes…I’ll be gone for half an hour or so.”
“Take your time. I’ve got to take notes on this documentary.”
“Okay. Later.”
Michele spent the time at the DQ savoring her parfait and trying to come up with a plan to discover what was going on with the false Mr. Largo.
She repeated to herself her belief that no secret agent bent on tracking down the “infamous Taran Tula” would just come to the Endless Caverns in the hopes of accidently seeing her. If he had been reading her blog…and he must have done so, he would have known she was going there, but not the time of day or anything like that. Why, if he knew Taran Tula was actually Michele Bravo, even go to the caverns at all? Why not stake out her apartment?
Michele took out a pocket notebook and made some notes. Their next stop was the Shenandoah Caverns. What if she were to mention that in her blog…and give the time of day – having some plausible reason for going into that much detail, of course – that she’d be there. Then, if she saw the false Mr. Largo again, she’d know that he had in actual fact been following her.
In one sense she hated to do it. If there was any kind of confrontation, she could hardly dispatch the false Mr. Largo with Fitz as a witness. And she didn’t know the terrain surrounding Shenandoah Caverns…if she needed to make a quick getaway she wouldn’t be able to do it…
No.
What she would do would be to post an entry that she’d been called home unexpectedly. So if the false Mr. Largo were following her, he’d go stake out her apartment to wait for her return. Meanwhile, she’d continue her cavernous adventures…her main writing was going into the magazine, anyway, not the blog…
But how to find out if the false Mr. Largo were staking out her apartment?
Easy. She was the head of Spindrift Security, after all. She’d put one of her operatives on her apartment, with instructions to find out if anyone else were watching it. And if anyone else was…find out – discreetly – who he was and who he worked for.
She’d draw up a likeness of the false Mr. Largo and send it along, to give her operative a heads up, but if the false Mr. Largo were working for the police or some other law enforcement agency, chances were they’d have half a dozen agents staked out around her place.
Finishing her peanut buster parfait and her plan at the same time, Michele sighed and got up. She’d make her sketch, then send an email later on tonight, setting things in motion. Then, there’d be nothing to do but wait.
Well, she’d still been in the need for comfort food after the shock of the false Mr. Largo. And now he’d shown up again. By rights she should treat herself to a peanut buster parfait, but she’d have to resist. And tomorrow she’d have to buy a collapsible bike so she could get in some exercise during the rest of this trip. She was also a member of a health club chain that was supposed to have outlets everywhere…she’d better start looking for those, too, so she could get in a little swimming and a little weight training. She’d been allowing herself to slack off for too long.
Well, hell, she thought. She’d just got handed another shock – a worse one – the false Mr. Largo might know her identity – her real identity – as Michele Bravo. If that didn’t call for comfort food nothing would. She’d go have that buster bar parfait and give up on her desserts for lunch starting tomorrow.
“Feel like a Dairy Queen, Fitz?” she asked. “My treat.”
Fitz looked up from his computer. “No thanks. Are you having ice cream cravings?”
“Yes…I’ll be gone for half an hour or so.”
“Take your time. I’ve got to take notes on this documentary.”
“Okay. Later.”
Michele spent the time at the DQ savoring her parfait and trying to come up with a plan to discover what was going on with the false Mr. Largo.
She repeated to herself her belief that no secret agent bent on tracking down the “infamous Taran Tula” would just come to the Endless Caverns in the hopes of accidently seeing her. If he had been reading her blog…and he must have done so, he would have known she was going there, but not the time of day or anything like that. Why, if he knew Taran Tula was actually Michele Bravo, even go to the caverns at all? Why not stake out her apartment?
Michele took out a pocket notebook and made some notes. Their next stop was the Shenandoah Caverns. What if she were to mention that in her blog…and give the time of day – having some plausible reason for going into that much detail, of course – that she’d be there. Then, if she saw the false Mr. Largo again, she’d know that he had in actual fact been following her.
In one sense she hated to do it. If there was any kind of confrontation, she could hardly dispatch the false Mr. Largo with Fitz as a witness. And she didn’t know the terrain surrounding Shenandoah Caverns…if she needed to make a quick getaway she wouldn’t be able to do it…
No.
What she would do would be to post an entry that she’d been called home unexpectedly. So if the false Mr. Largo were following her, he’d go stake out her apartment to wait for her return. Meanwhile, she’d continue her cavernous adventures…her main writing was going into the magazine, anyway, not the blog…
But how to find out if the false Mr. Largo were staking out her apartment?
Easy. She was the head of Spindrift Security, after all. She’d put one of her operatives on her apartment, with instructions to find out if anyone else were watching it. And if anyone else was…find out – discreetly – who he was and who he worked for.
She’d draw up a likeness of the false Mr. Largo and send it along, to give her operative a heads up, but if the false Mr. Largo were working for the police or some other law enforcement agency, chances were they’d have half a dozen agents staked out around her place.
Finishing her peanut buster parfait and her plan at the same time, Michele sighed and got up. She’d make her sketch, then send an email later on tonight, setting things in motion. Then, there’d be nothing to do but wait.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Erotica by Bravo: Dighton & Forrest #3: He's a Good Man
She stood alone at the far end of the nightclub. There were dozens of people on the dance floor, all immersed in themselves. She was surrounded by people yet she was totally alone. The atmosphere was smoky…smoking wasn’t allowed but there were smoke pots of dry ice everywhere to give that ethereal effect. And the music, drums pounding in a sensual rhythm...she was so frightened. Surely he couldn’t track her down here.
Her eyes ran desperately over the crowd, seeking the entrance at the far side. All these people…even if he came in here he could never find her. She began to breathe a little easier.
Then she saw him…and their eyes met across the room. A cold chill ran from her throat down to her belly.
“Inside…close quarters, night’s calling under blood red skies.”
He was tall, head if not shoulders taller than anyone else on the dance floor. And he was staring right at her.
"This madness, starts burning, a victim of a strange desire."
He began to move towards her. Obliquely, not getting in the way of the couples on the floor. She’d lose sight of him, then see him again, and always his eyes were on her, boring into hers.
"Mistaken, we follow, restless emotions take you down. Down, down, down. Round round round."
Her mouth was dry, and she was finding it hard to breathe.
"Unwilling, still hunger,"
Then, suddenly, she couldn’t see him any more.
Where had he…. And then he was there, right in front of her.
She stared up at him, like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.
He stared down at her, not smiling, but his eyes were telling her he wanted her, bad.
"For lustful pleasures I have found
He's a good man in a bad time
He's a good man in a bad time"
Then he smiled at her. She licked her lips, feeling a fluttering between her thighs. He turned and began to walk away from her slowly. She followed him onto the dance floor.
"Soft voices, seduce you
A butterfly in a spider's web"
Then somehow she was in front of him, and still walking, half hoping that he had walked away, that he had left her. Then she felt his hand rest lightly…so lightly, on her shoulder. She stopped, staring forward, waiting.
He came up to her, pressed his whole body against her back. He placed his other hand on her other shoulder, and then simultaneously, very, very slowly, brought them down, past her biceps, to her forearms, and then his hands closed over hers. He brought them up, crossing her arms in front of her, gripping her hands firmly but tenderly.
"Infectious, behavior
You're damned to do it all again (and again and again and again...)"
Then he started swaying with her, and she swayed with him. She could feel his breath stirring the tendrils of the hair at the nape of her neck, could feel his cock growing larger and harder and rubbing against her butt, as the music rolled seductively on…she pressed her butt into him…
He's a good man in a bad time
He's a good man in a bad time"
Then, very slowly, he moved his head from one side of hers to the other. He reached out with one hand and grasped her other wrist, so that he was holding both of them in one hand. The other he brought down very slowly, pressing through her skirt against her belly, then down her inner thigh, then he picked up the material of her skirt and pulled it upwards
"Don't cry, darling
I'll be with you"
He reached inside her skirt and ran his hand over her inner thigh, then suddenly picked her up and twirled her around slowly. She reached up with one hand to run her fingers through his thick black hair.
"All night, darling
Deep within you"
Then, suddenly, he put her down and released her. She had been so relaxed, so comfortable in his strong arms that her legs suddenly collapsed like jelly and she sank to the floor. This brought her to her senses for a few seconds. She stood up, tried to walk away.
She only made it a few steps. Then she turned and saw that he had walked with her. He extended a hand. She reached out and took it. Their fingers interlaced. Their eyes were locked with each other. She licked her lips again, left her tongue protruding between her lips …
He pulled her close to him, with such strength, and bent down towards her, and they started swaying to the music again only this time it was his face…his lips…that were so close to her lips…
He took one of her hands, pressed it to his buttock and made her rub it up and down…he felt so solid…so sexy….
Then he released her hands and brought his own down to her buttocks, rubbing her, squeezing her, pressing her against him…meanwhile he smiled at her, breathing softly on her, as she gazed into his dark, liquid eyes.
She brought her own hands up and rested them around his neck. She wanted so badly for him to kiss her, she was burning for it.
Suddenly he took her, thrust her torso so that her head snapped, leaving her neck exposed. He bent down and gently kissed her neck, gently nibbled it.
Then he stopped, he backed up, not moving, just staring at her with desire.
He was waiting for her to make the next move? Well, she’d make it.
Her shirt had been buttoned up with just the top button loose, now she reached up, unbuttoned a few buttons and pulled her shirt apart to better reveal her décolletage, her mounds of soft breasts just waiting for him to possess them…
Then she came back to him, reached up to his face with her hands, caressing him…
He took her hands, and she began to kiss the hollow of his neck, moving down to his chest, moving down lower than that, staring at the bulge in his slacks that told her he wanted her so badly.….
He lifted her back up, grasped her hands, and they began to twirl around and around and around
Until suddenly they were naked on a bed, and he held her legs up and wide apart and was plowing into her in long, deep strokes, all the while gazing down at her and she up at him. Again and again and again, and again and again, until she began to cum and this time it lasted so long she could hardly stand it…she moaned and cried “Yes, yes, yes” and then he bent down and fastened his teeth on her neck, and it was a sweetness she’d never experienced before….
Her eyes ran desperately over the crowd, seeking the entrance at the far side. All these people…even if he came in here he could never find her. She began to breathe a little easier.
Then she saw him…and their eyes met across the room. A cold chill ran from her throat down to her belly.
“Inside…close quarters, night’s calling under blood red skies.”
He was tall, head if not shoulders taller than anyone else on the dance floor. And he was staring right at her.
"This madness, starts burning, a victim of a strange desire."
He began to move towards her. Obliquely, not getting in the way of the couples on the floor. She’d lose sight of him, then see him again, and always his eyes were on her, boring into hers.
"Mistaken, we follow, restless emotions take you down. Down, down, down. Round round round."
Her mouth was dry, and she was finding it hard to breathe.
"Unwilling, still hunger,"
Then, suddenly, she couldn’t see him any more.
Where had he…. And then he was there, right in front of her.
She stared up at him, like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake.
He stared down at her, not smiling, but his eyes were telling her he wanted her, bad.
"For lustful pleasures I have found
He's a good man in a bad time
He's a good man in a bad time"
Then he smiled at her. She licked her lips, feeling a fluttering between her thighs. He turned and began to walk away from her slowly. She followed him onto the dance floor.
"Soft voices, seduce you
A butterfly in a spider's web"
Then somehow she was in front of him, and still walking, half hoping that he had walked away, that he had left her. Then she felt his hand rest lightly…so lightly, on her shoulder. She stopped, staring forward, waiting.
He came up to her, pressed his whole body against her back. He placed his other hand on her other shoulder, and then simultaneously, very, very slowly, brought them down, past her biceps, to her forearms, and then his hands closed over hers. He brought them up, crossing her arms in front of her, gripping her hands firmly but tenderly.
"Infectious, behavior
You're damned to do it all again (and again and again and again...)"
Then he started swaying with her, and she swayed with him. She could feel his breath stirring the tendrils of the hair at the nape of her neck, could feel his cock growing larger and harder and rubbing against her butt, as the music rolled seductively on…she pressed her butt into him…
He's a good man in a bad time
He's a good man in a bad time"
Then, very slowly, he moved his head from one side of hers to the other. He reached out with one hand and grasped her other wrist, so that he was holding both of them in one hand. The other he brought down very slowly, pressing through her skirt against her belly, then down her inner thigh, then he picked up the material of her skirt and pulled it upwards
"Don't cry, darling
I'll be with you"
He reached inside her skirt and ran his hand over her inner thigh, then suddenly picked her up and twirled her around slowly. She reached up with one hand to run her fingers through his thick black hair.
"All night, darling
Deep within you"
Then, suddenly, he put her down and released her. She had been so relaxed, so comfortable in his strong arms that her legs suddenly collapsed like jelly and she sank to the floor. This brought her to her senses for a few seconds. She stood up, tried to walk away.
She only made it a few steps. Then she turned and saw that he had walked with her. He extended a hand. She reached out and took it. Their fingers interlaced. Their eyes were locked with each other. She licked her lips again, left her tongue protruding between her lips …
He pulled her close to him, with such strength, and bent down towards her, and they started swaying to the music again only this time it was his face…his lips…that were so close to her lips…
He took one of her hands, pressed it to his buttock and made her rub it up and down…he felt so solid…so sexy….
Then he released her hands and brought his own down to her buttocks, rubbing her, squeezing her, pressing her against him…meanwhile he smiled at her, breathing softly on her, as she gazed into his dark, liquid eyes.
She brought her own hands up and rested them around his neck. She wanted so badly for him to kiss her, she was burning for it.
Suddenly he took her, thrust her torso so that her head snapped, leaving her neck exposed. He bent down and gently kissed her neck, gently nibbled it.
Then he stopped, he backed up, not moving, just staring at her with desire.
He was waiting for her to make the next move? Well, she’d make it.
Her shirt had been buttoned up with just the top button loose, now she reached up, unbuttoned a few buttons and pulled her shirt apart to better reveal her décolletage, her mounds of soft breasts just waiting for him to possess them…
Then she came back to him, reached up to his face with her hands, caressing him…
He took her hands, and she began to kiss the hollow of his neck, moving down to his chest, moving down lower than that, staring at the bulge in his slacks that told her he wanted her so badly.….
He lifted her back up, grasped her hands, and they began to twirl around and around and around
Until suddenly they were naked on a bed, and he held her legs up and wide apart and was plowing into her in long, deep strokes, all the while gazing down at her and she up at him. Again and again and again, and again and again, until she began to cum and this time it lasted so long she could hardly stand it…she moaned and cried “Yes, yes, yes” and then he bent down and fastened his teeth on her neck, and it was a sweetness she’d never experienced before….
Monday, July 12, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, Ch 12
I.
Michele and Fitz walked quietly through Endless Caverns, impressed by the sheer beauty of it. Michele hadn’t known what to expect, after the let-down of the Skyline Caverns, but the Endless Caverns lived up to their billing. It was just as impressive as Luray Caverns had been. Gigantic stalactites and stalagmites were on display here…hundreds of them. Michele regretted now that she hadn’t taken her Skyline Tour Guide aside and asked him what had happened to all the stalactites there…why there were only a handful. Was Skyline so much younger that only a few stalactites had formed, had they all been broken off for some reason…or were the conditions that produced the anthodites such that far fewer stalactites and stalagmites were formed? She’d have to do some research.
As they reached ground level once more…steps up from cavern level were steep…they went into the gift shop, as usual, and Michele picked up a ball cap and a couple of T-shirts. The t-shirts went into a bag, she put the ball cap on her head. It was extremely cool – a bat with a wing and body on the bill of the cap, the other wing rising up onto the face…and the colors were complimentary -- a brown bat on a dark blue cap.
As they walked out of the gift shop, Michele’s eyes wandered over the people waiting to enter the cave, and a cold chill suddenly ran through her. She recognized one of the men…it was the false Mr. Largo, who had precipitated her abandonment of her Taran Tula persona four weeks ago.
Her face remained expressionless as her eyes passed over him and both she and Fitz walked past. She knew that she looked 100 pounds thinner now – especially since she was wearing a t-shirt tucked into her cargo shorts, which showed off her flat stomach, and her face had a completely different shape without the cheek pads she’d worn to further give the illusion of overweight. Not to mention she was wearing a ball cap that hid her hair – which was a different shade and a different style, anyway. There was no way he could recognize her.
But what was he doing here?
Well…it had to be a coincidence. Even if he was searching for Taran Tula, and connected her to Michele Bravo – but how in hell could he have done that? – he wouldn’t have tried to track her down at this cave!
She glanced back, and saw his back heading into the entrance to the cave, along with several other people. Whatever he was doing there, he hadn’t recognized her.
Nevertheless…
“Something wrong?” asked Fitz, as they reached the car. “You look lost in thought.”
Michele grimaced. “I was just thinking…there’s a loose end…one of my projects…I won’t bore you with the details…but I was just thinking, maybe I’d better cut it off.”
II.
Gus Keller walked towards the entrance to the caverns, after purchasing his ticket. His eyes wandered over the people emerging from the gift shop. Jeez, the cavern operators must make a ton of money on their overpriced souvenirs….hey, that girl was wearing a pretty cool cap, with bats on it..he’d have to pick up one of those on the way out…
He walked into the cavern followed by several others, including several children. Everyone was duly impressed by the awe-inspiring rock formations.
Bat cap on head, Keller returned to his car and thence to his hotel room. So, okay, it had not been an entirely wasted trip. That cavern had been pretty impressive. But now was the time to utilize a little patience and common sense. He would stake out Michele Bravo’s home, and wait for her there….like a spider waiting for a fly.
III.
That evening, Fitz and Michele lay in bed, watching the Sci Fi Channel. Or SyFy channel, as it was now known. It was one of those SyFy channel-produced TV movies, with prehistoric creatures wreaking havoc on modern day campers, complete with bad CGI, bad actors except for the one “name” actor who hopefully had been paid a great deal to lend his name to the drek, bad dialog, and a ludicrous plot. They were watching it somewhat in disbelief, just to see how bad it could actually be.
When the commercials came on, Michele muted them with the remote.
“From TV drek to movie drek,” Michele murmured, as a commercial for the new hit movie Twilight – Eclipse, came on. “I’m really tired of this vampire craze…”
“What’s wrong with vampires?” asked Fitz. “I thought you liked that sort of thing.”
“Let me show you something,” Michele said, reaching for her laptop.
She went to YouTube, did a search on “Fright Night Club Scene,” and then played it.
“Now, that is a sexy vampire,” she said, indicating the sweat-shirt clad Chris Sarandon, portraying Jerry Dandridge, entering a smoky nightclub and seeking out his quarry, the movie hero’s girlfriend, Amy. He proceeded to seduce her by a dance.
“Whew,” said Fitz, after the six minute clip was over. “That was hot. Or hawt, as the kids today say.”
He got up on his knees and looked down at her recumbent form.
“We should learn to dance like that,” he said.
She grinned up at him. “I’d like that.”
“But for now….”
Fitz slipped out of his underwear, and Michele propped several pillows behind her head, so that she was laying down but her head and torso were slightly elevated. Fitz straddled her on his knees, and his erect cock rubbed against her face.
Michele licked her lips and then licked out at his cock. He pressed it forward, into her mouth, and she accepted it, relaxing, sealing her lips around it. She gazed up at him as he began, very gently, to thrust his cock into her mouth, as far into her mouth and throat as she cared to accept it. He looked down at her, smiling his appreciation, then as those little tendrils of pleasure began to coil in his thighs he licked his own lips, and his torso shuddered a bit.
Michele enjoyed the look of bliss on his face as she pleasured him, and when he came she swallowed his cum.
He unstraddled her and lay back. “Mmmmm, that was nice.”
“Now do me,” she commanded, handing him her vibrator.
He scooched closer to her, lying his body next to hers, turned the vibrator on and placed it between her legs. He knew exactly how she liked it – she’d shown him, long ago, and it was his turn to watch her face as she lay back, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of the warm, cylindrical piece of metal on her clitoris. He rubbed it back and forth, up and down, in circular motions, always nice and slow.
Her eyes opened wide as she felt herself about to cum, and she tilted her chin upward and grimaced with the pleasure of it…again and again…
IV.
As she drifted asleep, Michele was doubly satisfied. She had intended her next erotic adventure for Dighton & Forrest to have been a recreation of Eve Marie Saint and Cary Grant’s North by Northwest action on Mount Rushmore…but there was no denying that the steaming heat of “Jerry Dandridge” and “Amy Peterson” was indeed so very, very hot…so hot that sometimes she actually watched that scene while pleasuring herself as a sort of mental stimulation -- better than porn any day ....perhaps she’d give her readers a dose of vampire sex next…
Michele and Fitz walked quietly through Endless Caverns, impressed by the sheer beauty of it. Michele hadn’t known what to expect, after the let-down of the Skyline Caverns, but the Endless Caverns lived up to their billing. It was just as impressive as Luray Caverns had been. Gigantic stalactites and stalagmites were on display here…hundreds of them. Michele regretted now that she hadn’t taken her Skyline Tour Guide aside and asked him what had happened to all the stalactites there…why there were only a handful. Was Skyline so much younger that only a few stalactites had formed, had they all been broken off for some reason…or were the conditions that produced the anthodites such that far fewer stalactites and stalagmites were formed? She’d have to do some research.
As they reached ground level once more…steps up from cavern level were steep…they went into the gift shop, as usual, and Michele picked up a ball cap and a couple of T-shirts. The t-shirts went into a bag, she put the ball cap on her head. It was extremely cool – a bat with a wing and body on the bill of the cap, the other wing rising up onto the face…and the colors were complimentary -- a brown bat on a dark blue cap.
As they walked out of the gift shop, Michele’s eyes wandered over the people waiting to enter the cave, and a cold chill suddenly ran through her. She recognized one of the men…it was the false Mr. Largo, who had precipitated her abandonment of her Taran Tula persona four weeks ago.
Her face remained expressionless as her eyes passed over him and both she and Fitz walked past. She knew that she looked 100 pounds thinner now – especially since she was wearing a t-shirt tucked into her cargo shorts, which showed off her flat stomach, and her face had a completely different shape without the cheek pads she’d worn to further give the illusion of overweight. Not to mention she was wearing a ball cap that hid her hair – which was a different shade and a different style, anyway. There was no way he could recognize her.
But what was he doing here?
Well…it had to be a coincidence. Even if he was searching for Taran Tula, and connected her to Michele Bravo – but how in hell could he have done that? – he wouldn’t have tried to track her down at this cave!
She glanced back, and saw his back heading into the entrance to the cave, along with several other people. Whatever he was doing there, he hadn’t recognized her.
Nevertheless…
“Something wrong?” asked Fitz, as they reached the car. “You look lost in thought.”
Michele grimaced. “I was just thinking…there’s a loose end…one of my projects…I won’t bore you with the details…but I was just thinking, maybe I’d better cut it off.”
II.
Gus Keller walked towards the entrance to the caverns, after purchasing his ticket. His eyes wandered over the people emerging from the gift shop. Jeez, the cavern operators must make a ton of money on their overpriced souvenirs….hey, that girl was wearing a pretty cool cap, with bats on it..he’d have to pick up one of those on the way out…
He walked into the cavern followed by several others, including several children. Everyone was duly impressed by the awe-inspiring rock formations.
Bat cap on head, Keller returned to his car and thence to his hotel room. So, okay, it had not been an entirely wasted trip. That cavern had been pretty impressive. But now was the time to utilize a little patience and common sense. He would stake out Michele Bravo’s home, and wait for her there….like a spider waiting for a fly.
III.
That evening, Fitz and Michele lay in bed, watching the Sci Fi Channel. Or SyFy channel, as it was now known. It was one of those SyFy channel-produced TV movies, with prehistoric creatures wreaking havoc on modern day campers, complete with bad CGI, bad actors except for the one “name” actor who hopefully had been paid a great deal to lend his name to the drek, bad dialog, and a ludicrous plot. They were watching it somewhat in disbelief, just to see how bad it could actually be.
When the commercials came on, Michele muted them with the remote.
“From TV drek to movie drek,” Michele murmured, as a commercial for the new hit movie Twilight – Eclipse, came on. “I’m really tired of this vampire craze…”
“What’s wrong with vampires?” asked Fitz. “I thought you liked that sort of thing.”
“Let me show you something,” Michele said, reaching for her laptop.
She went to YouTube, did a search on “Fright Night Club Scene,” and then played it.
“Now, that is a sexy vampire,” she said, indicating the sweat-shirt clad Chris Sarandon, portraying Jerry Dandridge, entering a smoky nightclub and seeking out his quarry, the movie hero’s girlfriend, Amy. He proceeded to seduce her by a dance.
“Whew,” said Fitz, after the six minute clip was over. “That was hot. Or hawt, as the kids today say.”
He got up on his knees and looked down at her recumbent form.
“We should learn to dance like that,” he said.
She grinned up at him. “I’d like that.”
“But for now….”
Fitz slipped out of his underwear, and Michele propped several pillows behind her head, so that she was laying down but her head and torso were slightly elevated. Fitz straddled her on his knees, and his erect cock rubbed against her face.
Michele licked her lips and then licked out at his cock. He pressed it forward, into her mouth, and she accepted it, relaxing, sealing her lips around it. She gazed up at him as he began, very gently, to thrust his cock into her mouth, as far into her mouth and throat as she cared to accept it. He looked down at her, smiling his appreciation, then as those little tendrils of pleasure began to coil in his thighs he licked his own lips, and his torso shuddered a bit.
Michele enjoyed the look of bliss on his face as she pleasured him, and when he came she swallowed his cum.
He unstraddled her and lay back. “Mmmmm, that was nice.”
“Now do me,” she commanded, handing him her vibrator.
He scooched closer to her, lying his body next to hers, turned the vibrator on and placed it between her legs. He knew exactly how she liked it – she’d shown him, long ago, and it was his turn to watch her face as she lay back, eyes closed, enjoying the feeling of the warm, cylindrical piece of metal on her clitoris. He rubbed it back and forth, up and down, in circular motions, always nice and slow.
Her eyes opened wide as she felt herself about to cum, and she tilted her chin upward and grimaced with the pleasure of it…again and again…
IV.
As she drifted asleep, Michele was doubly satisfied. She had intended her next erotic adventure for Dighton & Forrest to have been a recreation of Eve Marie Saint and Cary Grant’s North by Northwest action on Mount Rushmore…but there was no denying that the steaming heat of “Jerry Dandridge” and “Amy Peterson” was indeed so very, very hot…so hot that sometimes she actually watched that scene while pleasuring herself as a sort of mental stimulation -- better than porn any day ....perhaps she’d give her readers a dose of vampire sex next…
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, ch 11
I.
The Endless Caverns, just 3 miles south of New Market, Virginia, are so named because even now, 131 years after their discovery in 1879, it is not known how far underground the caverns extend. They have been mapped for over six miles, and periodically expeditions set out to try to find tunnels leading into other rooms.
Before taking the guided tour of the caverns, which they knew would not extend for the whole six miles (most show caves show only about 20% of the cavern system in question), Michele and Fitz walked around New Market.
New Market is a small town, of only a little over 2,000 people. Despite that, they have two baseball teams -- a collegiate summer league team called the Rebels, and a summer baseball league team called the Shockers.
Michele was more interested in its Civil War connections.
On May 15, 1864, the Battle of New Market took place, one of the battles in the Valley Campaigns of 1864 – General Grant’s campaigns to bring pressure on the Confederate armies in the Shenandoah Valley.
Confederate General John C. Breckinridge, desperate for men, summoned students from VMI (the Virginia Military Institute) to help. Over half of those who answered the call (257 men) were “rats,” first year students. They joined Breckinridge’s army of 4,500 veterans. Breckinridge had originally only intended to use them as a reserve, but when the situation became desperate he “sent the boys in,” and the cadets did as ordered, and were instrumental in chasing Union General Franz Sigel and his army out of the Shenandoah Valley.
Fitz and Michele walked through the Hall of Valor, then joined a guided tour of the battlefield, in particular the “field of lost shoes,” no longer muddy, but where, back in 1864, the rats had charged to set the Union soldiers to flight, and the cadet's shoes had been sucked off by the thick mud through which they had slogged onthat rainy day.
Five of the cadets died that day, five died within three months from wounds received during the battle, and forty-eight others were wounded…but the Confederacy survived for another day.
“Too bad I didn’t get this idea a month ago,” Michele mused, nodding at an old poster in the visitor’s center. Just a month earlier, in May, the Battle of New Market had been re-enacted.
“There’s re-enactments going on all the time,” said Fitz, “somewhere.”
Michele grinned at him. “What a very helpful comment, Fitz,” she said. “I’ll have to do some research when we get back to our B&B. The Gettysburg re-enactment, I know they do that one every year…”
Fitz stopped and stared at her.
“What,” she demanded.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry to tell you, that’s already been, too. Just a couple of weeks ago. July 1st, 2nd and 3rd. That’s because…”
“I know, I know,” moaned Michele, clutching her head. “That’s when the actual battle took place, so of course they do it on those days. And it never even occurred to me. Damn, damn and day-um.”
“There’s always next year. Give you an excuse to come back.”
Michele grinned. “As if I needed an excuse.” He bent down and kissed her briefly.
Then she sighed. “Well, let’s go take a look at Endless Caverns, and after that, that farm, Cooper Farm.”
“Okay.”
II.
Gus Keller stood outside the entrance building to the Endless Caverns, cursing himself for a fool.
He really hadn’t thought this through, he thought to himself. He’d been so anxious to see Taran Tula again that he’d picked up sticks and come here….but to what end? Was he going to hover around the cavern entrance all day long? That’d be a waste of time. Should he check out the B&Bs around New Market, ask if there was a Michele Bravo staying there? But what a waste of time, if she’d decided to stay in a nearby town.
He didn’t even know if she was really in the town! Perhaps she was timeslipping her blog, publishing the daily entries a week or so late, so as to avoid any fans trying to meet her. So even though she was writing about her visits as if they were happening that very day, they might very well have actually happened a week…even two weeks in the past. Even travel bloggers might have groupies who need to be circumvented.
No, he hadn’t thought this through.
What he should have done, Keller thought, was just to get the address of this particular Michele Bravo, and then camp outside her house or her apartment, or whatever it might be. That was a place she’d be returning to eventually!
Keller took a deep drag on his cigarette and smiled ruefully. He’d just really, really wanted to meet her today, end the suspense quickly…he felt like a teenager with his first crush.
“Hell with it,” he murmured, carefully stubbing out his cigarette and then throwing it into a garbage can. “As long as I’m here, he thought, “I’ll go through the caverns. They might be interesting.”
The Endless Caverns, just 3 miles south of New Market, Virginia, are so named because even now, 131 years after their discovery in 1879, it is not known how far underground the caverns extend. They have been mapped for over six miles, and periodically expeditions set out to try to find tunnels leading into other rooms.
Before taking the guided tour of the caverns, which they knew would not extend for the whole six miles (most show caves show only about 20% of the cavern system in question), Michele and Fitz walked around New Market.
New Market is a small town, of only a little over 2,000 people. Despite that, they have two baseball teams -- a collegiate summer league team called the Rebels, and a summer baseball league team called the Shockers.
Michele was more interested in its Civil War connections.
On May 15, 1864, the Battle of New Market took place, one of the battles in the Valley Campaigns of 1864 – General Grant’s campaigns to bring pressure on the Confederate armies in the Shenandoah Valley.
Confederate General John C. Breckinridge, desperate for men, summoned students from VMI (the Virginia Military Institute) to help. Over half of those who answered the call (257 men) were “rats,” first year students. They joined Breckinridge’s army of 4,500 veterans. Breckinridge had originally only intended to use them as a reserve, but when the situation became desperate he “sent the boys in,” and the cadets did as ordered, and were instrumental in chasing Union General Franz Sigel and his army out of the Shenandoah Valley.
Fitz and Michele walked through the Hall of Valor, then joined a guided tour of the battlefield, in particular the “field of lost shoes,” no longer muddy, but where, back in 1864, the rats had charged to set the Union soldiers to flight, and the cadet's shoes had been sucked off by the thick mud through which they had slogged onthat rainy day.
Five of the cadets died that day, five died within three months from wounds received during the battle, and forty-eight others were wounded…but the Confederacy survived for another day.
“Too bad I didn’t get this idea a month ago,” Michele mused, nodding at an old poster in the visitor’s center. Just a month earlier, in May, the Battle of New Market had been re-enacted.
“There’s re-enactments going on all the time,” said Fitz, “somewhere.”
Michele grinned at him. “What a very helpful comment, Fitz,” she said. “I’ll have to do some research when we get back to our B&B. The Gettysburg re-enactment, I know they do that one every year…”
Fitz stopped and stared at her.
“What,” she demanded.
“Oh, baby, I’m sorry to tell you, that’s already been, too. Just a couple of weeks ago. July 1st, 2nd and 3rd. That’s because…”
“I know, I know,” moaned Michele, clutching her head. “That’s when the actual battle took place, so of course they do it on those days. And it never even occurred to me. Damn, damn and day-um.”
“There’s always next year. Give you an excuse to come back.”
Michele grinned. “As if I needed an excuse.” He bent down and kissed her briefly.
Then she sighed. “Well, let’s go take a look at Endless Caverns, and after that, that farm, Cooper Farm.”
“Okay.”
II.
Gus Keller stood outside the entrance building to the Endless Caverns, cursing himself for a fool.
He really hadn’t thought this through, he thought to himself. He’d been so anxious to see Taran Tula again that he’d picked up sticks and come here….but to what end? Was he going to hover around the cavern entrance all day long? That’d be a waste of time. Should he check out the B&Bs around New Market, ask if there was a Michele Bravo staying there? But what a waste of time, if she’d decided to stay in a nearby town.
He didn’t even know if she was really in the town! Perhaps she was timeslipping her blog, publishing the daily entries a week or so late, so as to avoid any fans trying to meet her. So even though she was writing about her visits as if they were happening that very day, they might very well have actually happened a week…even two weeks in the past. Even travel bloggers might have groupies who need to be circumvented.
No, he hadn’t thought this through.
What he should have done, Keller thought, was just to get the address of this particular Michele Bravo, and then camp outside her house or her apartment, or whatever it might be. That was a place she’d be returning to eventually!
Keller took a deep drag on his cigarette and smiled ruefully. He’d just really, really wanted to meet her today, end the suspense quickly…he felt like a teenager with his first crush.
“Hell with it,” he murmured, carefully stubbing out his cigarette and then throwing it into a garbage can. “As long as I’m here, he thought, “I’ll go through the caverns. They might be interesting.”
Friday, July 9, 2010
Michele Bravo in the Hall of the Mountain King, ch 10
I.
Five days ago, Gus Keller, the Special Crimes Investigation Bureau (SCIB) investigator, had received a list of five women who might…or might not…match the partial thumbprint that he had rescued from the spoon Taran Tula had been using to eat a hot fudge sundae.
That list was as follows:
1. Michele Bravo – fingerprinted as a child as a military family member
2. Amanda Cooper – arrested for shoplifting
3. Rita Ellison – an employee of a defunct civilian military contractor. She’d been fingerprinted when she’d applied for a top secret clearance
4. Sophia Sanchez – a sergeant in the US Army
5. Debbie Morgan – an employee of a current civilian contractor to the military
He had elected to start with Michele Bravo.
He had begun his search on the web, conducting a search via Google. He knew the parameters – someone who had been a “military” brat, lived in Germany, and was 30 years old.
Interestingly, there were only a half dozen Michele Bravos to be found. One of them wrote erotica, another was a travel writer for an online webzine. Gus clicked on that link, and was brought to the website GhostGuns.com.
This was the woman’s profile page, complete with a brief biography and a photo. The photo was a three quarters shot of a woman, dressed in fencer’s garb. She was standing side on to the viewer, with her head turned to face front, in a pose Keller thought looked rather sexy. She had long blond hair, a narrow face with a pointy chin, and no breasts to speak of on a slender torso. She definitely wasn’t the Taran Tula he’d seen, even if she’d put on a hundred pounds.
He read her bio – she had indeed been a military brat…she was the Michele Bravo of the fingerprint….just not his Michele Bravo.
He passed on to the next woman on the list, Amanda Cooper. He found it difficult to believe that a woman of Taran Tula’s abilities would ever have been caught shoplifting, but one never knew…
II.
Three days later, Keller had completed the list, and none of the women looked even remotely like Taran Tula. He’d found photos of a couple of the women on the web, and he’d had to visit three of them, in person, tracking them down to their last known address.
Keller relaxed in his hotel room after his last failed trip.
It didn’t make sense. One of those five women had to be Taran Tula.
Keller rubbed his eyes, trying to think.
Then, he powered up his computer and returned to the website of his first choice, Michele Bravo. He stared once again at the photo. It was clearly a publicity photo, not something casual. What if…what if that photo wasn’t of Michele Bravo at all? He’d heard they did that sometimes, these internet writers. They used some headshot other than their own to maintain their anonymity.
So…he’d better go see this Michele Bravo in person, just to make sure.
He looked at the webpage with closer attention. There was a link on the page to a blog. He clicked on it.
The blog was being updated every day…the woman was visiting caverns in Northern Virginia. And she’d be going to the Endless Caverns the next day.
Keller looked at his watch, then pulled up directions on the computer. If he left now, he could drive to this New Market, Virginia place in just a few hours…he’d be there by noon, certainly.
Keller nodded sharply. He threw his clothes back into his suitcase, packed up his laptop, checked out of the hotel, and hit the road.
Five days ago, Gus Keller, the Special Crimes Investigation Bureau (SCIB) investigator, had received a list of five women who might…or might not…match the partial thumbprint that he had rescued from the spoon Taran Tula had been using to eat a hot fudge sundae.
That list was as follows:
1. Michele Bravo – fingerprinted as a child as a military family member
2. Amanda Cooper – arrested for shoplifting
3. Rita Ellison – an employee of a defunct civilian military contractor. She’d been fingerprinted when she’d applied for a top secret clearance
4. Sophia Sanchez – a sergeant in the US Army
5. Debbie Morgan – an employee of a current civilian contractor to the military
He had elected to start with Michele Bravo.
He had begun his search on the web, conducting a search via Google. He knew the parameters – someone who had been a “military” brat, lived in Germany, and was 30 years old.
Interestingly, there were only a half dozen Michele Bravos to be found. One of them wrote erotica, another was a travel writer for an online webzine. Gus clicked on that link, and was brought to the website GhostGuns.com.
This was the woman’s profile page, complete with a brief biography and a photo. The photo was a three quarters shot of a woman, dressed in fencer’s garb. She was standing side on to the viewer, with her head turned to face front, in a pose Keller thought looked rather sexy. She had long blond hair, a narrow face with a pointy chin, and no breasts to speak of on a slender torso. She definitely wasn’t the Taran Tula he’d seen, even if she’d put on a hundred pounds.
He read her bio – she had indeed been a military brat…she was the Michele Bravo of the fingerprint….just not his Michele Bravo.
He passed on to the next woman on the list, Amanda Cooper. He found it difficult to believe that a woman of Taran Tula’s abilities would ever have been caught shoplifting, but one never knew…
II.
Three days later, Keller had completed the list, and none of the women looked even remotely like Taran Tula. He’d found photos of a couple of the women on the web, and he’d had to visit three of them, in person, tracking them down to their last known address.
Keller relaxed in his hotel room after his last failed trip.
It didn’t make sense. One of those five women had to be Taran Tula.
Keller rubbed his eyes, trying to think.
Then, he powered up his computer and returned to the website of his first choice, Michele Bravo. He stared once again at the photo. It was clearly a publicity photo, not something casual. What if…what if that photo wasn’t of Michele Bravo at all? He’d heard they did that sometimes, these internet writers. They used some headshot other than their own to maintain their anonymity.
So…he’d better go see this Michele Bravo in person, just to make sure.
He looked at the webpage with closer attention. There was a link on the page to a blog. He clicked on it.
The blog was being updated every day…the woman was visiting caverns in Northern Virginia. And she’d be going to the Endless Caverns the next day.
Keller looked at his watch, then pulled up directions on the computer. If he left now, he could drive to this New Market, Virginia place in just a few hours…he’d be there by noon, certainly.
Keller nodded sharply. He threw his clothes back into his suitcase, packed up his laptop, checked out of the hotel, and hit the road.
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