Gus Keller lay on the bed, blinking up at the ceiling, waiting for the Tylenol to kick in. His throat fell sore, he must have coughed up some water. But that was nothing compared to his head. Not only did the back of his head hurt, but so did the inside of his head.
But maybe all that pain would go away if he knew who he was. Who am I? he thought. Who am I? Gus Keller? Mr. Largo?
Hell, there was an easy way to find out. Where was his wallet?
He sat up, slowly. Everything looked normal…nothing was spinning around. He was okay, just the aching head, and the fact that he couldn’t remember who he was, who that woman was…who the man called Jan was…he couldn’t remember.
Don’t panic, he told himself. It’s just because of your head. You’ll go to sleep tonight and when you wake up you’ll be fine. But tonight, find your damn wallet, and see what that says.
He looked around the room…this had to be the woman’s room – she’d gotten her kimono out of the closet, after all. Was it his room, too, though?
He looked into the closet – only women’s clothing. Fat woman’s clothing.
He opened a door into the hallway, walked down a ways and opened the next door. He didn’t need to visit the closet, there were shorts and a t-shirt tossed onto the bed, and tennis shoes and loafers on the floor. This must be his room.
He picked up the shorts, felt in the pockets. From one pocket, he drew out a small spiral notebook. From the other, a wallet.
Holding his breath, he flipped the wallet open. He didn’t recognize the face of the man on the license, but he looked up at the mirror on one side of the room…it was the same face. He looked down at the license again. August Keller.
He went through the entire wallet. Credit cards, a membership in an art association, in a chess club…every card with the name Gus Keller on it. A couple of $20 bills – American, and several 20AUS dollars.
No personal pictures of any kind.
Next, Keller turned to the spiral notebook. He opened it and looked at the front page.
In capital letters on the front page was written: Alain Pretorius
And below it:
Drowning?
Mugging?
Heart attack?
And below that…
LDK?
Keller stared at the list. What the hell? Why did he know that that last entry, LDK, meant “Long distance killing.” A sniper killing. Why did he know that? And what was this list?
Were they private detectives, trying to figure out how a man had died? No, that wouldn’t be it. Were they….killers…trying to decide how to kill a man?
That woman…so beautiful…she’d saved his life…she was a killer? He was a killer?
He must be.
With a sudden sense of urgency, Keller dropped the notebook and returned to the woman’s bedroom. He needed to know what her name was.
She hadn’t yet returned, and he breathed a sigh of relief as his eyes cast about. There was her purse. He pounced on it, looked inside, extracted a passport and opened it. The woman’s face, the name: Marguerite Zelle. Born, Rome, Italy, 1971.
He stuffed the passport back where he’d gotten it, and laid down once more on the bed.
So..he was Gus Keller. To her. To the men downstairs, he was Mr. Largo. And she was Marguerite Zelle. To the men downstairs, probably. But…what was she to him? It was probably complicated enough when he *wasn’t suffering from amnesia. But now…
Hell, his head was hurting…for more reasons than one, now.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 19
Michele Bravo had risen early that morning, and gone downstairs dressed in her fatsuit, as usual, covered in a scarlet kimono, to find Adams and Jan having breakfast in the kitchen. Michele had greeted them, agreed that their presence would not be required until later that evening when they gave the cocktail party for “Alain Pretoirus” and bid them farewell. She’d put their dishes in the dishwasher, and then started her own breakfast.
Keller appeared a few minutes later, wearing charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. He must find the air-conditioning in the house a bit chilly.
Michele always loved a man in a turtleneck sweater. “Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
“Normally I don’t cook,” Michele told him, while she kept an eagle eye on the golden yellow mixture in the frying pan. She’d dropped in a bit of onion, a bit of cheese, and a lot of butter, just the way she liked it.
Soon she was dividing the eggs onto two plates, and poured two cups of coffee for them as they sat at the kitchen table.
“Our employers have gone out,” she told Keller, “shopping for the party tonight.”
He nodded.
Michele gazed at him closely. Time to find out what he’d learned last night, talking with Adams and Jan. Just how professional was he?
“So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours.” She said. “Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller reached into his rear pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook.
Michele listened to him intently, and nodded from time to time, impressed. If she hadn’t known he was a cop…well…a member of law enforcement, anyway…she’d believe he was the hired assassin he was supposed to be. He had the calculating mind for it.
When he came to a halt Michele said, “Very good, Keller. That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
She took their plates to the sink and rinsed off the remnants before stowing them in the dishwasher.
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller. “Just hang out here until tonight?”
He sure was impatient to know what they were doing, Michele thought. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Whatever game *he thought he was playing, he probably didn’t have unlimited time to do it. Probably had to get back to the office in another week or so, back to crunching numbers in his little cubicle.
Should she tweak him some more, Michele wondered. Show off her marksmanship skills again?
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a workout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Did his eyes light up when he said that, Michele wondered. Was he anxious to get his arms around her. She laughed to herself.
“My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
Michele was impressed. If he was trying to put on an act, it was a good one. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.” It was true. The spectacular fights that took place in TV shows and in movies were really bogus. A real fight, if at least one of the people involved knew what they were doing, was over in seconds.
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Michele shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Privately, Michele agreed with him. However, Keller acquiesced and disappeared upstairs to change into his swim trunks. Michele was waiting for him, still kimono clad, on the pool deck. She cast an appreciative eye over his physique…nice body.
He dove into the pool and swam with strong strokes from one end of the Olympic sized pool to the other.
Michele suppressed a sigh. What she wouldn’t give to be in that cold wetness right alongside him. Unfortunately, wearing a fat suit and trying to swim was counter-intuitive.
After a few more laps, Keller climbed out of the pool. He stood on the edge to dry himself, and water dripped around him. As he took a step, his foot slipped. He looked down in surprise.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when you’re feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“People around here probably wear thongs,” said Michele. She turned her head to look around, vaguely, wondering if a pair of thongs might be hiding somewhere, as he’d continued talking. Then she heard the sound of a thunk, turned back and watched as a prone Keller rolled off the deck into the water.
Faster than the speed of thought, Michele was out of her lounge chair and kneeling on the deck, trying to grab his arm to haul him back onto dry land. But, although she’d worn her fat suit for years, she’d never knelt in it like this, nor leaned over so far. She found herself overbalancing and fell into the water as well, driving Keller’s body deeper into the pool.
Michele knew she wouldn’t be able to dive down to the bottom of the pool in her fatsuit, it was too buoyant. Swearing between her teeth, she unzipped out of it and shoved it onto the deck, then dove down deep to grab Keller’s body. She towed him to the shallow part of the pool, then exerted all her strength to lift him out of the pool and onto the deck.
She was prepared to start artificial respiration, but he was already starting to cough and choke. She slapped his face a few times. “Gus, Gus,” she said, urgently. “Come on, baby.”
He opened his eyes.
“I…what…” he coughed, looking bewildered.
Michele sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
He blinked up at her
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Michele started to reach behind him to feel his head, when Jan and Adams arrived. Michele almost laughed to see their frightened faces. What, did they think she’d sue them because they’d rented a house with a bloody deathtrap for a pool?
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked Jan.
“He’s alright, Jan,” Michele told him reassuringly. “He’s alright,”
Michele almost burst out laughing as she saw Jan’s face…taking in her bra and her undies and the fact that her stomach was as flat as a board’s. But the amusement was quickly replaced by anger. Now Adams and Jan…not to mention Keller…knew her real appearance. Damn.
Jan’s lips were working.
“Don’t distress yourselves at all.” Michele said, calmly. “Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
Keller grimaced, but got to his feet. He put a hand to his head and then looked at it. Not much redness.
“I’m fine,” he said, as Michele moved to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” Michele told him. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
Michele walked with Keller into the house. He was moving with good coordination, and was turning his head this way and that, as if to stretch his neck. If he’d gotten whiplash she’d kill him!
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” she told him as they started climbing the steps to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” Keller said, in a strong voice. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head again.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
She returned with the kit, and knelt in front of him. He was still sitting where she’d left him.
Michele knew all about first aid….anyone in her dangerous profession had to be able to patch themselves up, let alone anyone else they came in contact with whom they wanted to keep alive…and had Keller follow her finger with his eyes to make sure they were both coordinated. She probed his skull…standing very close to him in her half-nakedity, and found that he had a bump but no dents where he’d fallen.
He’d be fine. No need for a bandage.
“Whew,” she said, relieved. (Why did she feel so relieved. Was she growing fond of this guy?) “Okay, Keller, you’re fine, though I bet you’ve got a splitting headache, eh? I’ll go down and tell Jan we’re still on for the operation tonight. You won’t need to appear – just stay in your room and sleep it off. I can find out everything we need to know myself.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Keller. “I…. I’m fine." He extended a hand, put it on her waist to stay her. "A bit of a headache…how about some aspirin?”
Allowing his hand to stay on her waist, Michele reached into the first aid kit for a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two pills, which she handed to him. He took them with his other hand, and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them without benefit water. She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed slightly, and then went over to her suitcase and pulled out another kimono, a black one this time.
“So, now you see me as I truly am,” she told Keller, as she wrapped the kimono round her. “And so have Jan and Adams. I’m not too happy about that. Still, needs drives when the devil vomits into your teacup. I’ll go have a chat with them. Lay down and rest up, Keller, I’ll be right back.”
Keller appeared a few minutes later, wearing charcoal slacks and a black turtleneck sweater. He must find the air-conditioning in the house a bit chilly.
Michele always loved a man in a turtleneck sweater. “Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please,” he said.
“Normally I don’t cook,” Michele told him, while she kept an eagle eye on the golden yellow mixture in the frying pan. She’d dropped in a bit of onion, a bit of cheese, and a lot of butter, just the way she liked it.
Soon she was dividing the eggs onto two plates, and poured two cups of coffee for them as they sat at the kitchen table.
“Our employers have gone out,” she told Keller, “shopping for the party tonight.”
He nodded.
Michele gazed at him closely. Time to find out what he’d learned last night, talking with Adams and Jan. Just how professional was he?
“So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours.” She said. “Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller reached into his rear pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook.
Michele listened to him intently, and nodded from time to time, impressed. If she hadn’t known he was a cop…well…a member of law enforcement, anyway…she’d believe he was the hired assassin he was supposed to be. He had the calculating mind for it.
When he came to a halt Michele said, “Very good, Keller. That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
She took their plates to the sink and rinsed off the remnants before stowing them in the dishwasher.
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller. “Just hang out here until tonight?”
He sure was impatient to know what they were doing, Michele thought. Well, she couldn’t blame him. Whatever game *he thought he was playing, he probably didn’t have unlimited time to do it. Probably had to get back to the office in another week or so, back to crunching numbers in his little cubicle.
Should she tweak him some more, Michele wondered. Show off her marksmanship skills again?
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a workout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Did his eyes light up when he said that, Michele wondered. Was he anxious to get his arms around her. She laughed to herself.
“My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
Michele was impressed. If he was trying to put on an act, it was a good one. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.” It was true. The spectacular fights that took place in TV shows and in movies were really bogus. A real fight, if at least one of the people involved knew what they were doing, was over in seconds.
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Michele shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Privately, Michele agreed with him. However, Keller acquiesced and disappeared upstairs to change into his swim trunks. Michele was waiting for him, still kimono clad, on the pool deck. She cast an appreciative eye over his physique…nice body.
He dove into the pool and swam with strong strokes from one end of the Olympic sized pool to the other.
Michele suppressed a sigh. What she wouldn’t give to be in that cold wetness right alongside him. Unfortunately, wearing a fat suit and trying to swim was counter-intuitive.
After a few more laps, Keller climbed out of the pool. He stood on the edge to dry himself, and water dripped around him. As he took a step, his foot slipped. He looked down in surprise.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when you’re feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“People around here probably wear thongs,” said Michele. She turned her head to look around, vaguely, wondering if a pair of thongs might be hiding somewhere, as he’d continued talking. Then she heard the sound of a thunk, turned back and watched as a prone Keller rolled off the deck into the water.
Faster than the speed of thought, Michele was out of her lounge chair and kneeling on the deck, trying to grab his arm to haul him back onto dry land. But, although she’d worn her fat suit for years, she’d never knelt in it like this, nor leaned over so far. She found herself overbalancing and fell into the water as well, driving Keller’s body deeper into the pool.
Michele knew she wouldn’t be able to dive down to the bottom of the pool in her fatsuit, it was too buoyant. Swearing between her teeth, she unzipped out of it and shoved it onto the deck, then dove down deep to grab Keller’s body. She towed him to the shallow part of the pool, then exerted all her strength to lift him out of the pool and onto the deck.
She was prepared to start artificial respiration, but he was already starting to cough and choke. She slapped his face a few times. “Gus, Gus,” she said, urgently. “Come on, baby.”
He opened his eyes.
“I…what…” he coughed, looking bewildered.
Michele sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
He blinked up at her
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Michele started to reach behind him to feel his head, when Jan and Adams arrived. Michele almost laughed to see their frightened faces. What, did they think she’d sue them because they’d rented a house with a bloody deathtrap for a pool?
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked Jan.
“He’s alright, Jan,” Michele told him reassuringly. “He’s alright,”
Michele almost burst out laughing as she saw Jan’s face…taking in her bra and her undies and the fact that her stomach was as flat as a board’s. But the amusement was quickly replaced by anger. Now Adams and Jan…not to mention Keller…knew her real appearance. Damn.
Jan’s lips were working.
“Don’t distress yourselves at all.” Michele said, calmly. “Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
Keller grimaced, but got to his feet. He put a hand to his head and then looked at it. Not much redness.
“I’m fine,” he said, as Michele moved to his side and slipped her arm around his waist.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” Michele told him. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
Michele walked with Keller into the house. He was moving with good coordination, and was turning his head this way and that, as if to stretch his neck. If he’d gotten whiplash she’d kill him!
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” she told him as they started climbing the steps to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” Keller said, in a strong voice. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head again.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
She returned with the kit, and knelt in front of him. He was still sitting where she’d left him.
Michele knew all about first aid….anyone in her dangerous profession had to be able to patch themselves up, let alone anyone else they came in contact with whom they wanted to keep alive…and had Keller follow her finger with his eyes to make sure they were both coordinated. She probed his skull…standing very close to him in her half-nakedity, and found that he had a bump but no dents where he’d fallen.
He’d be fine. No need for a bandage.
“Whew,” she said, relieved. (Why did she feel so relieved. Was she growing fond of this guy?) “Okay, Keller, you’re fine, though I bet you’ve got a splitting headache, eh? I’ll go down and tell Jan we’re still on for the operation tonight. You won’t need to appear – just stay in your room and sleep it off. I can find out everything we need to know myself.”
“No, I’m fine,” said Keller. “I…. I’m fine." He extended a hand, put it on her waist to stay her. "A bit of a headache…how about some aspirin?”
Allowing his hand to stay on her waist, Michele reached into the first aid kit for a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two pills, which she handed to him. He took them with his other hand, and popped them into his mouth, swallowing them without benefit water. She placed her hand on his shoulder, squeezed slightly, and then went over to her suitcase and pulled out another kimono, a black one this time.
“So, now you see me as I truly am,” she told Keller, as she wrapped the kimono round her. “And so have Jan and Adams. I’m not too happy about that. Still, needs drives when the devil vomits into your teacup. I’ll go have a chat with them. Lay down and rest up, Keller, I’ll be right back.”
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 18
I.
Gus Keller stood alone in the darkness. He was clad in black slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and black face paint, so only his eyes were visible, cold, cold eyes, the eyes of a killer.
He crouched behind the bole of a tree. In the light of the full moon he was assembling a rifle…barrel, stock, magazine…he lifted it to his shoulder and sighted through the scope. Moonlight glinted off the front sight.
Keller took a deep breath and sighted through the scope again. 400 yards away was the figure of his target…a woman…a large woman, dressed in red. Perfect. No one would notice any extra red on that outfit.
He closed one eye…sighted…the cross-hairs of the scope rested on the back of the head of his target. She turned around. It was Taran Tula. Keller began to squeeze the trigger…
II.
He sat up in bed, gasping. Sunshine poured through the window.
“Shit,” murmured Keller, and rolled out of bed. His chest was bare, but he wore cotton pajama bottoms. He strolled to the bay window, and looked out at the ocean. From that window he could look down at the rocks below the cliff, and the waves pounding on them. Whitecapped waves rolled gently toward shore.
Keller showered, shaved, dressed, and left his bedroom. He could smell the aroma of frying eggs, and followed it down the stairs and into the kitchen. Taran Tula herself, clad in a shimmering scarlet kimono, was fixing breakfast.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Normally I don’t cook,” she said, swirling the eggs around in the frying pan with a whisk, “so you might regret taking me up on my offer, but we will see.”
She was being too modest, Keller concluded as he scarfed down her eggs. She’d mixed in onions and a bit of cheese, and they were delicious.
“Our employers have gone out,” said Taran Tula, “shopping for the party tonight. So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller told her what he had learned about their target. Taran Tula listened to him intently, nodding now and again. “Very good,” she said. “That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller, as he watched Taran Tula rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. Just hang out here until tonight?”
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a woirkout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Taran Tula smiled. “My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
She nodded and looked at him penetratingly. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.”
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Taran Tula shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Nevertheless, and perhaps for vanity reason, Gus changed into his swimming trunks and walked out to the pool. He’d been working out and while he wasn’t bulging with muscles, he didn’t look too bad, if he did say so himself.
Taran Tula relaxed in a deck chair as she watched him swim. He wished she would join him, but guessed that she was self-conscious about her appearance in a swim-suit. It was so odd…you’d think in her job she’d find it better to be lithe and svelte…but perhaps no one expected a fa….an extra large woman to be a cold-blooded killer. And she could certainly look jolly when she had a mind to…
Finally tiring of the swim, Keller stepped out of the pool. He stepped onto the stone deck, and his left foot slipped.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when your feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“They probably expect you to wear flip-flops,” said Taran Tula.
“Well, it’s stupid,” said Keller petulantly, taking another step. This time, for whatever reason, his foot slipped out from under him completely. He was unable to regain his balance and felt himself falling. His head hit the stone, sparks exploded in front of his eyes, and then he felt himself falling into the pool.
III.
He opened his eyes, and stared blankly up at a woman who was gazing down at him with concern.
“Gus, Gus,” she was saying. “Come on, baby.”
He didn’t recognize her at all, but she seemed to know him. Her hair was dripping wet, she was dripping wet. And she wore nothing except a bra and panties and had tan, tan skin. And his head was killing him.
“I…what…?”
She sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
She kept calling him Keller..Gus Keller. Was that his name? God..he couldn’t remember.
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Before he could continue, two men appeared over him, both of them looking terrified.
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked one of them.
Mr. Largo? What the hell?
“He’s alright, Jan, he’s alright,” said the woman. “Don’t distress yourselves at all. Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
He…what was his name? Gus? Keller? Largo?...got up.
“I’m fine,” he said, as the woman supported him.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” said the woman. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked the man she called Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine."
The two men were looking at her, at her panties and bra and her trim, lithe, feminiely muscular form, in rather a state of shock, he thought. At Jan's feet was a mass of dripping wet clothing, misshapen clothing..too much clothing to have belonged to his savior.
"You've...uh...you've lost weight," observed the man called Jan.
The woman held up a hand. "Looks can be decieving, gentlemen. It only looks like I've lost weight. Water can be very slimming, you know."
"Oh, of course," said Jan quickly, glancing at his companion.
"So continue about your business as if nothing has happened. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
He walked with the woman into the house. He looked around…he didn’t recognize anything. He’d hit his head, fallen into the pool, and now he had lost his memory.
Which would be fine except who the hell was he? Keller or Largo? Something was wrong here. This woman...she'd been wearing a fat suit? What was up with that? And both of them...they'd looked so frightened, and not just because he'd hit his head. There'd been something else about their manner, they'd looked as if they were afraid of him.
Instead of asking who he was, maybe he’d better just keep his mouth shut and try to figure things out on his own. Besides, amnesia just happened in books. Once he got over the shock of what had happened to him, his memory would come flooding back. No problem.
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” the woman told him as they mounted the marble staircase to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” he said. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head and brought it away with a streak of blood on it. He wasn’t bleeding too badly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
“I won’t move a muscle,” he said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. She was soaking wet. Her fat suit had been soaking wet. She must have dove into the pool and pulled him out. She had saved his life.
He hoped...he rather hoped...that she'd take off her bra and panties before she came out of the bathroom...he wanted to see what she looked like completely naked. She had saved his life...whoever she was...and he wanted to make love to her.
Gus Keller stood alone in the darkness. He was clad in black slacks, black turtleneck sweater, and black face paint, so only his eyes were visible, cold, cold eyes, the eyes of a killer.
He crouched behind the bole of a tree. In the light of the full moon he was assembling a rifle…barrel, stock, magazine…he lifted it to his shoulder and sighted through the scope. Moonlight glinted off the front sight.
Keller took a deep breath and sighted through the scope again. 400 yards away was the figure of his target…a woman…a large woman, dressed in red. Perfect. No one would notice any extra red on that outfit.
He closed one eye…sighted…the cross-hairs of the scope rested on the back of the head of his target. She turned around. It was Taran Tula. Keller began to squeeze the trigger…
II.
He sat up in bed, gasping. Sunshine poured through the window.
“Shit,” murmured Keller, and rolled out of bed. His chest was bare, but he wore cotton pajama bottoms. He strolled to the bay window, and looked out at the ocean. From that window he could look down at the rocks below the cliff, and the waves pounding on them. Whitecapped waves rolled gently toward shore.
Keller showered, shaved, dressed, and left his bedroom. He could smell the aroma of frying eggs, and followed it down the stairs and into the kitchen. Taran Tula herself, clad in a shimmering scarlet kimono, was fixing breakfast.
“Have a seat,” she said. “Eggs and bacon?”
“Yes, please.”
“Normally I don’t cook,” she said, swirling the eggs around in the frying pan with a whisk, “so you might regret taking me up on my offer, but we will see.”
She was being too modest, Keller concluded as he scarfed down her eggs. She’d mixed in onions and a bit of cheese, and they were delicious.
“Our employers have gone out,” said Taran Tula, “shopping for the party tonight. So we have the house to ourselves for a couple of hours. Now, you took down information on Alain Pretorius last night. Share.”
Keller told her what he had learned about their target. Taran Tula listened to him intently, nodding now and again. “Very good,” she said. “That gives us material to work with. I’ll vamp him tonight, and get the most personal details of his life. With a complete picture, we’ll be able to make our plans for his demise tomorrow morning.”
“So what do we do now?” asked Keller, as he watched Taran Tula rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher. Just hang out here until tonight?”
“This is an excellent location for us, Keller,” she said. “We can do some trap shooting, or pistol shooting, in privacy. There’s also a dojo down in the basement, if you feel like getting in a woirkout.”
“With you?” asked Keller.
Taran Tula smiled. “My skills are with blade and bullets, I’m afraid. But perhaps when our employers return, Adams will consent to work out with you.”
“He’s rather a small man,” objected Keller. “Besides, I don’t really like to bout with amateurs. I always get beat when I work out with guys, because I always have to hold back. When you’re killing someone, you spear the eyes, and break their neck. Takes three seconds.”
She nodded and looked at him penetratingly. “That’s very true, Keller. Very true.”
“A swim would be nice though,” said Keller. “We could grab surfboards and try the waves just outside this house.”
Taran Tula shook her head. “I’m not a swimmer. So no ocean swimming for you. But there’s an Olympic size pool in the backyard.”
Keller laughed. “Seems kind of redundant, to live right next to the ocean and yet have a swimming pool.”
Nevertheless, and perhaps for vanity reason, Gus changed into his swimming trunks and walked out to the pool. He’d been working out and while he wasn’t bulging with muscles, he didn’t look too bad, if he did say so himself.
Taran Tula relaxed in a deck chair as she watched him swim. He wished she would join him, but guessed that she was self-conscious about her appearance in a swim-suit. It was so odd…you’d think in her job she’d find it better to be lithe and svelte…but perhaps no one expected a fa….an extra large woman to be a cold-blooded killer. And she could certainly look jolly when she had a mind to…
Finally tiring of the swim, Keller stepped out of the pool. He stepped onto the stone deck, and his left foot slipped.
“Jeez,” he said. “This stone is like glass, when your feet are wet. You wouldn’t think they’d put material like this around a pool.”
“They probably expect you to wear flip-flops,” said Taran Tula.
“Well, it’s stupid,” said Keller petulantly, taking another step. This time, for whatever reason, his foot slipped out from under him completely. He was unable to regain his balance and felt himself falling. His head hit the stone, sparks exploded in front of his eyes, and then he felt himself falling into the pool.
III.
He opened his eyes, and stared blankly up at a woman who was gazing down at him with concern.
“Gus, Gus,” she was saying. “Come on, baby.”
He didn’t recognize her at all, but she seemed to know him. Her hair was dripping wet, she was dripping wet. And she wore nothing except a bra and panties and had tan, tan skin. And his head was killing him.
“I…what…?”
She sat back on her heels and gave a shaky laugh. “Jeez, Keller,” she said, “You gave me a fright. You slipped and hit your head. And then you went into the pool. And sank like a stone. Damn. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. I thought unconscious people were supposed to float until their clothing got soaked and dragged them down.”
She kept calling him Keller..Gus Keller. Was that his name? God..he couldn’t remember.
“I….I can’t….” he said…
Before he could continue, two men appeared over him, both of them looking terrified.
“My god, what’s happened to Mr. Largo?” asked one of them.
Mr. Largo? What the hell?
“He’s alright, Jan, he’s alright,” said the woman. “Don’t distress yourselves at all. Slight problem with the materials around this pool, but he’s perfectly all right. Get up, Mr. Largo.”
He…what was his name? Gus? Keller? Largo?...got up.
“I’m fine,” he said, as the woman supported him.
“Don’t worry, Jan,” said the woman. “He’s fine. Everything will go as planned tonight, never fear. I’ll just take him up to his room and tend to him.”
“Can we help at all?” asked the man she called Jan.
“No, thanks. He’s fine."
The two men were looking at her, at her panties and bra and her trim, lithe, feminiely muscular form, in rather a state of shock, he thought. At Jan's feet was a mass of dripping wet clothing, misshapen clothing..too much clothing to have belonged to his savior.
"You've...uh...you've lost weight," observed the man called Jan.
The woman held up a hand. "Looks can be decieving, gentlemen. It only looks like I've lost weight. Water can be very slimming, you know."
"Oh, of course," said Jan quickly, glancing at his companion.
"So continue about your business as if nothing has happened. Come along, Mr. Largo.”
He walked with the woman into the house. He looked around…he didn’t recognize anything. He’d hit his head, fallen into the pool, and now he had lost his memory.
Which would be fine except who the hell was he? Keller or Largo? Something was wrong here. This woman...she'd been wearing a fat suit? What was up with that? And both of them...they'd looked so frightened, and not just because he'd hit his head. There'd been something else about their manner, they'd looked as if they were afraid of him.
Instead of asking who he was, maybe he’d better just keep his mouth shut and try to figure things out on his own. Besides, amnesia just happened in books. Once he got over the shock of what had happened to him, his memory would come flooding back. No problem.
“Don’t slip on these steps, whatever you do,” the woman told him as they mounted the marble staircase to the second floor.
“You don’t need to prop me up,” he said. “I’m fine. Just a little bit of blood coming from my skull, is all,” and he raised his hand to the back of his head and brought it away with a streak of blood on it. He wasn’t bleeding too badly.
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “I am fine.”
She brought him into a bedroom and pushed him onto the bed. “Stay there,” she said, “while I get the first aid kit from the bathroom.”
“I won’t move a muscle,” he said.
She disappeared into the bathroom. She was soaking wet. Her fat suit had been soaking wet. She must have dove into the pool and pulled him out. She had saved his life.
He hoped...he rather hoped...that she'd take off her bra and panties before she came out of the bathroom...he wanted to see what she looked like completely naked. She had saved his life...whoever she was...and he wanted to make love to her.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 17
Michele Bravo multi-tasked when she wrote her fiction. She watched a movie or TV show at the same time. It couldn’t be something she’d never seen before, it had to be something she knew by heart, so that she could watch it (sized appropriately in the top right corner of her laptop screen) out of the corner of her eye while writing, only devoting her full attention to it when it came to one of her favorite parts.
She had written the Dighton & Forrest “Rushmore” adventure while simultaneously watching a DVD of James Mason’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Now that her writing was complete, she’d relax for a few minutes watching "first-run" TV, if she could find anything worth watching, before surrendering herself to the arms of Morpheus.
To that end, she turned off her laptop and turned on the large-screen TV. The home was complete with satellite television, such that she could see channels not only from Australia and New Zealand, but also from Japan and the United States.
Turning on a US satellite channel, she watched in disbelief as an advertisement for the remake of the classic early 1970s TV series *Hawaii 5-0 flashed on the screen. Michele had been too young to see it on its first airing, but her parents had acquired the DVDs and she’d seen them – as well as other intelligent shows such as Mannix, Mission: Impossible and It Takes a Thief. She therefore recognized rip-offs when she saw them, and it looked like this Hawaii 5-0 was just such a rip-off, they’d taken the name and probably the theme song, and nothing else. In the place of the stylish Jack Lord as Steve McGarrett, it looked like he’d be replaced by a wise-cracking, smirking know it all, and the earnest Danno would be replaced by another wise-cracking, smirking know it all who would chase after the ladies at the drop of a lei.
Lei… lay…. Interesting play on words, Michele thought suddenly. Could she work that into one of her erotica stories? She always kept a notebook and pen at her bedside to write down such thoughts, and she quickly noted down this idea.
Then she returned her attention to the TV.
The station was now showing an ad for the new lawyer drama, also a remake, called The Defenders. Michele had read of the old show from the early 1960s, starring father and son lawyers -- crusty E.G. Marshall and young idealist Robert Reed, but never seen it. Nevertheless she looked with disgust at the advert, as it seemed clear that crusty James Belushi was going to fill the "straight laced lawyer" role, whereas Jerry O’Connell would be playing the "wild and crazy" lawyer role, as was the case in practically every "buddy" TV series produced in the 1990s. Why weren’t these two women actresses cast in this, she wondered? Why always two white men?
Michele felt on the bed and picked up her Kindle, which she shook impotently at the television screen. That was the problem with reading books on a Kindle – you couldn’t throw it at the TV screen in a moment of petulant rage, you’d break either the TV or the Kindle. It was only a softcover book that could withstand such treatment.
Michele flicked rapidly through the rest of the 100s of channels without finding anything she felt like staying up to watch. After going through them again just to make sure, she turned off the TV and turned in for the night.
Tomorrow would be a busy day.
She had written the Dighton & Forrest “Rushmore” adventure while simultaneously watching a DVD of James Mason’s 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea.
Now that her writing was complete, she’d relax for a few minutes watching "first-run" TV, if she could find anything worth watching, before surrendering herself to the arms of Morpheus.
To that end, she turned off her laptop and turned on the large-screen TV. The home was complete with satellite television, such that she could see channels not only from Australia and New Zealand, but also from Japan and the United States.
Turning on a US satellite channel, she watched in disbelief as an advertisement for the remake of the classic early 1970s TV series *Hawaii 5-0 flashed on the screen. Michele had been too young to see it on its first airing, but her parents had acquired the DVDs and she’d seen them – as well as other intelligent shows such as Mannix, Mission: Impossible and It Takes a Thief. She therefore recognized rip-offs when she saw them, and it looked like this Hawaii 5-0 was just such a rip-off, they’d taken the name and probably the theme song, and nothing else. In the place of the stylish Jack Lord as Steve McGarrett, it looked like he’d be replaced by a wise-cracking, smirking know it all, and the earnest Danno would be replaced by another wise-cracking, smirking know it all who would chase after the ladies at the drop of a lei.
Lei… lay…. Interesting play on words, Michele thought suddenly. Could she work that into one of her erotica stories? She always kept a notebook and pen at her bedside to write down such thoughts, and she quickly noted down this idea.
Then she returned her attention to the TV.
The station was now showing an ad for the new lawyer drama, also a remake, called The Defenders. Michele had read of the old show from the early 1960s, starring father and son lawyers -- crusty E.G. Marshall and young idealist Robert Reed, but never seen it. Nevertheless she looked with disgust at the advert, as it seemed clear that crusty James Belushi was going to fill the "straight laced lawyer" role, whereas Jerry O’Connell would be playing the "wild and crazy" lawyer role, as was the case in practically every "buddy" TV series produced in the 1990s. Why weren’t these two women actresses cast in this, she wondered? Why always two white men?
Michele felt on the bed and picked up her Kindle, which she shook impotently at the television screen. That was the problem with reading books on a Kindle – you couldn’t throw it at the TV screen in a moment of petulant rage, you’d break either the TV or the Kindle. It was only a softcover book that could withstand such treatment.
Michele flicked rapidly through the rest of the 100s of channels without finding anything she felt like staying up to watch. After going through them again just to make sure, she turned off the TV and turned in for the night.
Tomorrow would be a busy day.
Thursday, August 26, 2010
Bravo by Erotica: Dighton & Forrest: Rushmore
Sasha Forrest checked her climbing harness. Then, she checked Peter’s harness, and he checked hers. After this double checking, they knew that their gear was properly rigged and they would have no problem rappelling down George Washington’s head.
Sasha held onto the rope and gazed down over the dome of Washington’s head. Straight down, one could only see his brows and a bit of his nose, but by moving her gaze a bit she could look out over a vast plain of Joshua trees, with their eerie branches reaching toward the sky. The ground was only 60 feet below, just right for novice rappellers.
Sasha was not a rock climber. The thought of hanging her body off a cliff thousands of feet in the air while using her fingertips and toes to climb up did not appeal. No, what she enjoyed was the rappelling down….a respectable distance like 60 feet. With a properly equipped climbing harness, one could walk down the surface, or float down, light as a feather.
Sasha had first learned to rappel about ten years ago, when her sister had invited her to go along on a caving journey, in which one had to learn how to rappel, as there were three vertical tunnels of between ten to twenty feet down which one had to rappel, in order to get through the cave. Sasha had hated the caving, but loved the rappelling. Her opportunities for rappelling had been limited after that, since she would only rappel down something that she could easily reach the top of!
Such was the case with the miniature Mount Rushmore set out in the California desert. One could walk up a looooong series of steps at the back of the replica, and then rappel down the front.
“Okay, Sasha,” said Peter, “are we ready to go down?”
“I’m ready,” confirmed Sasha.
They both turned their backs on the Joshua trees and looked back at the climbing station, where the ropes down which they would soon be sliding were securely fashioned. Then, they started walking backward over the head.
In rappelling, one could either walk all the way downward – if the vertical surface permitted, or slide downward in thin air. A hand behind the back, holding the rope which was run through a descender, controlled how fast or slow one could move down the rope. Such rappelling took no upper body strength at all, only an ability to coordinate with one’s rear hand, and the leg strength to balance oneself on the climbing surface.
By the end of the day, Sasha and Peter had rappelled down Washington, Roosevelt, Jefferson and Lincoln…several times.
They’d made a special point of stopping just underneath Washington’s nose to sneeze. (In a well-known piece of Hitchcockian lore, Hitchcock had wanted to film a scene where Cary Grant had done this, but finally decided against it.) One of the “North by Northwest’s Rushmore” attendants would take your photo of this fantasy re-enactment.
At day’s end, Sasha and Peter returned to their hotel suite, divested themselves of their clothes, and walked into the whirlpool bath, where they soaked for half an hour. It was not the rappelling that had turned their legs into noodles, but the climbing up the 60-foot staircase 8 times.
Peter stretched out his legs, enjoying the bubbling heat of the whirlpool, but knowing he’d nevertheless be sore the next morning. “Tell me,” he said, “Why are you so good to me?”
“It’s just my angelic nature,” Sasha murmured.
They rose out of the whirlpool bath. Peter caught up a fluffy towel and dried off his wife, her shoulders, her arms, tweaking her breasts, then down her long legs to her feet. He dried himself off much more quickly, then they walked into the bedroom.
Sasha took her vibrator from the end table, then plumped up some pillows and made herself comfortable. She turned on the vibrator and began to rub it up and down her clitoris. Peter lay with his head propped up on one arm and placed his other hand on Sasha’s right breast, kneading it gently.
“Get behind me,” she murmured.
“My legs are like noodles,” he complained. “You get in front of me.”
He propped himself up on his own pillows, and spread his own legs. Sasha sat between them and leaned back against Peter’s chest. Sasha resumed her attentions with the vibrator, while Peter now availed himself of both her breasts, at the same time nibbling on her neck. Sasha took her time, as usual, drawing herself almost up to orgasm before delaying it…holding the vibrator hard down against her clitoris until she could feel the tell-tale fluttering, then starting to rub it up and down to main the feeling…then finally she gave in and brought herself to climax. Behind her, Peter could feel her body shuddering with the pleasure of it.
“Now you,” she said, and she and Peter switched places. She spread her legs and Peter rested between them. He used his left hand to encircle his engorged cock, and began rubbing up and down briskly.
Sasha encircled his flat belly with her hands and massaged him as he worked. He was slouched down a bit so she could look over his head to see his hand working on his cock, and she’d lain next to him, and above him and under him, enough times to know that his eyes were closed and his cheeks pouched like a chipmunk’s as he held his breath.
“Ahhh..” he murmured. “Ahhhh.”
Then he began to shudder, and the cum came up over his hand onto his belly.
“Ah, god,” he said at last. “That was good.”
“I think we need to take another bath,” said Sasha.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Let’s go.”
Sasha held onto the rope and gazed down over the dome of Washington’s head. Straight down, one could only see his brows and a bit of his nose, but by moving her gaze a bit she could look out over a vast plain of Joshua trees, with their eerie branches reaching toward the sky. The ground was only 60 feet below, just right for novice rappellers.
Sasha was not a rock climber. The thought of hanging her body off a cliff thousands of feet in the air while using her fingertips and toes to climb up did not appeal. No, what she enjoyed was the rappelling down….a respectable distance like 60 feet. With a properly equipped climbing harness, one could walk down the surface, or float down, light as a feather.
Sasha had first learned to rappel about ten years ago, when her sister had invited her to go along on a caving journey, in which one had to learn how to rappel, as there were three vertical tunnels of between ten to twenty feet down which one had to rappel, in order to get through the cave. Sasha had hated the caving, but loved the rappelling. Her opportunities for rappelling had been limited after that, since she would only rappel down something that she could easily reach the top of!
Such was the case with the miniature Mount Rushmore set out in the California desert. One could walk up a looooong series of steps at the back of the replica, and then rappel down the front.
“Okay, Sasha,” said Peter, “are we ready to go down?”
“I’m ready,” confirmed Sasha.
They both turned their backs on the Joshua trees and looked back at the climbing station, where the ropes down which they would soon be sliding were securely fashioned. Then, they started walking backward over the head.
In rappelling, one could either walk all the way downward – if the vertical surface permitted, or slide downward in thin air. A hand behind the back, holding the rope which was run through a descender, controlled how fast or slow one could move down the rope. Such rappelling took no upper body strength at all, only an ability to coordinate with one’s rear hand, and the leg strength to balance oneself on the climbing surface.
By the end of the day, Sasha and Peter had rappelled down Washington, Roosevelt, Jefferson and Lincoln…several times.
They’d made a special point of stopping just underneath Washington’s nose to sneeze. (In a well-known piece of Hitchcockian lore, Hitchcock had wanted to film a scene where Cary Grant had done this, but finally decided against it.) One of the “North by Northwest’s Rushmore” attendants would take your photo of this fantasy re-enactment.
At day’s end, Sasha and Peter returned to their hotel suite, divested themselves of their clothes, and walked into the whirlpool bath, where they soaked for half an hour. It was not the rappelling that had turned their legs into noodles, but the climbing up the 60-foot staircase 8 times.
Peter stretched out his legs, enjoying the bubbling heat of the whirlpool, but knowing he’d nevertheless be sore the next morning. “Tell me,” he said, “Why are you so good to me?”
“It’s just my angelic nature,” Sasha murmured.
They rose out of the whirlpool bath. Peter caught up a fluffy towel and dried off his wife, her shoulders, her arms, tweaking her breasts, then down her long legs to her feet. He dried himself off much more quickly, then they walked into the bedroom.
Sasha took her vibrator from the end table, then plumped up some pillows and made herself comfortable. She turned on the vibrator and began to rub it up and down her clitoris. Peter lay with his head propped up on one arm and placed his other hand on Sasha’s right breast, kneading it gently.
“Get behind me,” she murmured.
“My legs are like noodles,” he complained. “You get in front of me.”
He propped himself up on his own pillows, and spread his own legs. Sasha sat between them and leaned back against Peter’s chest. Sasha resumed her attentions with the vibrator, while Peter now availed himself of both her breasts, at the same time nibbling on her neck. Sasha took her time, as usual, drawing herself almost up to orgasm before delaying it…holding the vibrator hard down against her clitoris until she could feel the tell-tale fluttering, then starting to rub it up and down to main the feeling…then finally she gave in and brought herself to climax. Behind her, Peter could feel her body shuddering with the pleasure of it.
“Now you,” she said, and she and Peter switched places. She spread her legs and Peter rested between them. He used his left hand to encircle his engorged cock, and began rubbing up and down briskly.
Sasha encircled his flat belly with her hands and massaged him as he worked. He was slouched down a bit so she could look over his head to see his hand working on his cock, and she’d lain next to him, and above him and under him, enough times to know that his eyes were closed and his cheeks pouched like a chipmunk’s as he held his breath.
“Ahhh..” he murmured. “Ahhhh.”
Then he began to shudder, and the cum came up over his hand onto his belly.
“Ah, god,” he said at last. “That was good.”
“I think we need to take another bath,” said Sasha.
“Yeah,” said Peter. “Let’s go.”
Monday, August 23, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 16
At the close of the day, Michele relaxed in the quite comfortable bed, pillows piled up behind her, and fired up her laptop.
First she checked her email, and answered one from her sister, giving innocuous details of her trip to Australia (to comfort a friend whose husband had dumped her, was the excuse she’d given her sister as the reason for her trip to Australia). Then she checked out a few blogs connected with her business.
The first one she checked was The Miniscule Guide to Art. This blog kept track of all the art thefts throughout the world. While there wasn’t an art theft every day – at least not a major one – there was an art theft every month, and this blog gave all the facts.
Michele pulled up the blog and read the most recent article there with disbelief.
Ah, what a fortune she could have made if she’d forgotten this little game with Gus Keller and gone over to Cairo…or indeed, apparently any second or third world country with first class art museums. It appeared that museums were oysters, waiting to be plucked.
But that was just a kneejerk reaction, she knew. She’d long known of the inadequate security measures of art museums in Cairo, but she could never have done anything about them. Indeed, for decades she’d wanted to visit the pyramids, but hadn’t dared do that either.
She knew that she, as a confident, self-assured, free woman of the Western world would just be heart-broken and outraged , to walk through any Islamic city and see the women there scurrying around behind their burhkas…that is, those who were allowed outside their homes without a male escort, if any. And violence toward any man who looked askance at her uncovered head was not out of the question.
No..she couldn’t have gone, and she couldn’t go, no matter how many art objects were there for the plucking. She would continue to send generous donations to Women for Women, to assist her sisters in the Middle Eastern world, and with that she must be content.
Michele sighed heavily. After this depressing news, and the depressing images of women it conjured up, she needed cheering up.
Next she visited Volcano Seven, a blog that covered the work of treasure hunters and the treasure they looked for and occasionally found.
And her eyes did indeed light up when she read:
Sydney, where she was now, was located in New South Wales. Queensland was a state just above this one, and was the state in which Lightning Ridge, the opal mining area she and the rest of her crew would be shortly visiting, was located. How fun it would be to go to the coast afterwards and get in some scuba diving on these ship and plane wrecks. She should even go to Palau and dive among the wrecks there….
Michele nodded. It would be done.
Now, she had some erotica to write.
Dighton & Forrest had reached California, and it was time they were rappelling down the face of George Washington.
First she checked her email, and answered one from her sister, giving innocuous details of her trip to Australia (to comfort a friend whose husband had dumped her, was the excuse she’d given her sister as the reason for her trip to Australia). Then she checked out a few blogs connected with her business.
The first one she checked was The Miniscule Guide to Art. This blog kept track of all the art thefts throughout the world. While there wasn’t an art theft every day – at least not a major one – there was an art theft every month, and this blog gave all the facts.
Michele pulled up the blog and read the most recent article there with disbelief.
Alarms, cameras not working in museum
CAIRO (AP) — None of the alarms and only seven out of 43 surveillance cameras were working at a Cairo museum where a Vincent van Gogh painting was stolen, Egypt’s top prosecutor said Sunday.
Thieves made off with the canvas, known by the titles of “Poppy Flowers” and “Vase with Flowers,” on Saturday from the Mahmoud Khalil Museum in the Egyptian capital.
Prosecutor general Abdel-Meguid Mahmoud told Egypt’s state news agency Sunday that the thieves used a box cutter to remove the painting from its frame. He blamed the heist on the museum’s lax security measures, calling them “for the most part feeble and superficial.”
The museum guards’ daily rounds at closing time were inadequate and did not meet minimum security requirements to protect internationally renowned works of art, he said.
Mahmoud added that his office had warned Egypt’s museums to implement stricter security controls after nine paintings were stolen last year from another Cairo institute, the Mohammed Ali Museum. Similar security lapses were to blame in that theft.
Ah, what a fortune she could have made if she’d forgotten this little game with Gus Keller and gone over to Cairo…or indeed, apparently any second or third world country with first class art museums. It appeared that museums were oysters, waiting to be plucked.
But that was just a kneejerk reaction, she knew. She’d long known of the inadequate security measures of art museums in Cairo, but she could never have done anything about them. Indeed, for decades she’d wanted to visit the pyramids, but hadn’t dared do that either.
She knew that she, as a confident, self-assured, free woman of the Western world would just be heart-broken and outraged , to walk through any Islamic city and see the women there scurrying around behind their burhkas…that is, those who were allowed outside their homes without a male escort, if any. And violence toward any man who looked askance at her uncovered head was not out of the question.
No..she couldn’t have gone, and she couldn’t go, no matter how many art objects were there for the plucking. She would continue to send generous donations to Women for Women, to assist her sisters in the Middle Eastern world, and with that she must be content.
Michele sighed heavily. After this depressing news, and the depressing images of women it conjured up, she needed cheering up.
Next she visited Volcano Seven, a blog that covered the work of treasure hunters and the treasure they looked for and occasionally found.
And her eyes did indeed light up when she read:
State undertakes shipwreck survey
A SURVEY of Queensland’s historic shipwrecks has been launched to provide a better understanding of where the historic sites are off Queensland’s coast.
Climate Change and Sustainability Minister Kate Jones said the survey would begin in Moreton Bay and be carried out by the Heritage Branch of the Department of Environment and Resource Management.
The heritage branch has recently taken over management of Queensland’s historic shipwrecks from the Queensland Museum.
“Queensland’s coastline is littered with untold stories under the sea,” Ms Jones said.
“We know there are more than 1000 historic shipwrecks or abandoned vessels along the state’s coast, as well as in our rivers and bays. But in most cases, data on these shipwrecks is scant and often inaccurate.
“Every one of these ships is an irreplaceable archaeological site which can tell us much about the lives of past generations of Queenslanders and others who visited our shores.
“While some wrecks in the Moreton Bay area are well-known such as the Aarhus, there are approximately 50 wrecks reported in and around the Bay listed on the National Shipwreck Database.
“In many cases, the locations listed are imprecise and we know very little about the history of the individual wrecks.
“Through this survey, we will tap into the broad range of skills and equipment within our heritage and marine parks units to locate as many wrecks as possible and determine their significance.”
Ms Jones said there was a wealth of information about unidentified shipwrecks among members of the community, historical researchers and diving groups.
The first stage in this survey would be community consultation, with the department calling on members of the public, research organisations and diving groups to help build up the bank of knowledge on historic sites, starting with Moreton Bay.
“We know the people of Queensland are passionate about our underwater history – and there is a real interest in many of our shipwrecks among the diving community in particular. By working with the community we hope to build a clearer picture about the wrecks off our coast.”
The survey would also locate different types of underwater heritage objects other than shipwrecks, including aircraft.
Sydney, where she was now, was located in New South Wales. Queensland was a state just above this one, and was the state in which Lightning Ridge, the opal mining area she and the rest of her crew would be shortly visiting, was located. How fun it would be to go to the coast afterwards and get in some scuba diving on these ship and plane wrecks. She should even go to Palau and dive among the wrecks there….
Michele nodded. It would be done.
Now, she had some erotica to write.
Dighton & Forrest had reached California, and it was time they were rappelling down the face of George Washington.
Friday, August 20, 2010
Erotica By Bravo - The Novella: En Garde: Seduction
Purchase it here: En Garde: Seduction (Erotica By Bravo)
Hi, faithful readers.
Michele Bravo has published her first novella on Kindle, called En Garde: Seduction. It explains how Peter Dighton and Sasha Forrest frst met.
It's 11,000 words, and costs $2.99. Order it by going to Amazon and conducting a search on En Garde: Seduction.
Here are the first two chapters.
Erotica by Bravo #1
En Garde: Seduction
Chapter 1
“There are three main types of fencing today,” Sasha Forrest told the five young people gathered in the high school gym. They were each clad in scruffy looking sweatpants and sweatshirts, with fencing foils and helmets at their feet. Sasha herself was tall and elegant in a white fencing jacket with a red heart over her left breast. The jacket itself was set off nicely by her black fencing knickers, stockings, and black shoes.
“There’s sport fencing, which is what you see in college and in the Olympics. In that kind of fencing, it’s a matter only of who touches whom first. The weapons – whether foil, sabre or epee – aren’t sharp, and so it doesn’t matter if anyone gets hit after they make their touch, they still get a point. Well..”
Sasha paused. She didn’t want to get too detailed in talking with high school students, but it was important to be accurate. “Epee is kind of different but I’m not going to go into that now!” she temporized.
She continued: “Then there’s classical fencing. That’s a type of fencing that harkens back to historical fencing – to dueling. In classical fencing – the points are sharp, and it most definitely matters if you get touched after you’ve made your own hit. The idea is to not get hit at all.
Then there’s stage fencing, which is what you see in the movies and on stage…and what I’m going to teach you. In stage fencing, the show is thing.”
Her five students – four guys and a girl – nodded.
“However,” said Sasha, “Let me point out that conditioning is just important for stage fencers as it is for any other type of fencer, if not more so. When you’re on stage you need to be able to remember the choreography, you need to be able to execute that choreography under bright lights, and under the eyes of 500 people. You have to be able to speak your lines at the same time or almost immediately afterward, and be able to be heard by those 500 people. So while I’m going to teach you the finer points of stage fencing, I’m also going to give you a pretty good workout in this class.”
Sasha gestured at the gym floor with the foil she held.
“As you can see, I’ve outlined three pistes on the floor in tape. Each one is 46 feet in length, and 6 feet wide. In competition and classical fencing, the competition takes place on the piste and you’re penalized if you step out of it. In stage fencing, as I told you, anything goes. You can stay on a piste if it’s called for in the stage directions, or you can be fencing up and down the aisles that run through the audience, or run up and down walls or things, whatever obstacles the set designer decides to put in your way.
But we’re going to start out today by learning our footwork and fencing terminology, and how to move up and down the piste. We won’t start applying what we’ve learned to stage combat until our next class.”
At that point, James Starling, a member of Sasha’s fencing club, entered the gym. He was dressed in a track suit and carried helmet and foil.
Sasha reached out and shook his head in greeting. “This is James, he’s a friend of mine. He’s going to help me demonstrate all the moves that I’m going to teach you. We’re going to do it two ways. First, we’re going to fence the way they do in competitive fencing. Then, we’ll open it up a bit and do it like stage fencers do.”
For the next ten minutes, Sasha and James bouted. As they darted up and down the piste, Sasha gave the names for each move she or James used, most of which was in French or Italian. In addition, and one thing she wanted to accomplish early on, was to impress her students by revealing her speed and precision on the piste. They could tell she was a skilled fencer who knew whereof she lunged, riposted, flechèd and balestra’d.
At the end of the ten minutes, Sasha shook hands with James again and thanked him for coming. “My pleasure," he murmured to her. Then he sketched a wave at the students, and left the gym. She’d buy him a Pepsi or something, next time they were at the Minneapolis Fencing Club.
“Okay,” said Sasha. “Let’s get started. Put on your helmets, please. We’re not going to do any actual fencing today, but I want you to get used to the feel of it, as you move around the piste. You will never, ever fence without wearing a helmet. Now, let me see each of you assume the en garde position.”
She watched critically as her five students assumed the position. Each of them was right handed, she noted with some relief. Good, so much easier to not have to give extra instructions to a left hander, she thought to herself.
Her students stood sideways and raised their swords in their right hands, meantime holding their left arms curled behind their backs, with their hands up high above their heads. They crouched slightly, with their right foot pointed forward, and their left foot turned sideways. Perfect en garde position.
“Very good,” said Sasha. “Now, let’s check out your conditioning. I want you to advance across the entire floor of this gym, and then retreat back to me. You saw how I did it while I was bouting with James, but let me show you again.”
She demonstrated how to advance, lifting the front foot and stepping forward about half a foot, while bringing the rear leg up to maintain the same distance between front and rear foot. Then she demonstrated how to retreat, by reversing the process.
“Okay, your turn,” she called.
Her students began to advance in unison.
They were drama students from the local high school, sixteen or seventeen years old, she guessed. School was out – it was summer – but they were attending summer acting classes given by the local Community Education center, and she was giving her time free to teach a class on stage fencing.
As she took them through a variety of other drills – learning how to advance twice and retreat once, how to retreat twice and advance one, how to lunge and recover from a lunge, advance and lunge, retreat and lunge, and so on, Sasha noted that they all were in pretty good shape. Fencing relied a great deal on the legs and on conditioning, and while they were breathing hard by the end of each drill, none of them was doing noticeably worse than the others.
By the end of this first class, Sasha was confident that her students had both the ambition and the ability to absorb what she was going to teach, and be able to translate it to the stage.
“Okay, kids,” she said. “We haven’t had much fun today, but when you come back on Wednesday, we’re going to take what we’ve learned and actually cross swords. So thanks for coming, and see you then.”
Chapter 2
Sasha walked into her apartment, set a bag of Chinese carry-out on the table, and turned on the TV.
She lived in a three-bedroom apartment on Minneapolis’s “West Bank.” The city of Minneapolis was bisected by the Mississippi River, and people who lived on either side of it distinguished themselves by being on the East Bank or the West Bank. Her neighborhood was located right by the University of Minnesota, in a subset of the West Bank called Dinkytown, and most – but not all – of the homes and apartments were rented by U of M students. Sasha lived in a high rise apartment building with two room-mates, one a secretary at Honeywell, the other a bank teller. Sasha was the aspiring actress of the group.
Sasha had gone to college in Richmond, Virginia on a fencing scholarship, and intended to earn a degree in business administration. But as was so often the case, she’d attended a production put on by the university’s theater school, became hooked, and switched her major to the fine arts.
After receiving her degree, she’d decided to move to Minneapolis, one of the cities that had a thriving theater scene, but which was a lot less expensive to live in (and safer) than Chicago or New York. And if her quest to gain roles immediately failed, she could always enroll in the University of Minnesota’s Master of Fine Arts Program.
But she’d wanted to spend the summer auditioning for plays, first.
Leaving the white boxes of takeout on the counter, Sasha went into the bathroom and took a long, hot shower. She soaped her long, clean limbs, and her pert breasts. She was five foot ten, with the musculature of a life-long athlete. Her short brown hair complemented her high cheekbones and long, straight nose, and her eyes were Siberian husky eyes, a crystal clear blue and her best feature. Her normal speaking voice was a soft southern drawl, but she had an excellent ear for accents and could speak Minnesotan already, not to mention a variety of British and Eastern European ones.
Sasha pulled on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, then returned to the kitchen, heated up her sweet & sour chicken and chicken fried rice, and relaxed on the couch with her copy of the Twin Cities Call Sheet, the newspaper for the theatrical community.
So far, her quest for roles had not been a successful one. Since arriving in the Twin Cities two months ago, she’d gone to a dozen casting calls, with no success. Money was not a problem – she was a fencing instructor with the Minneapolis Fencing Club, who were delighted to have an Olympic caliber fencer on staff.
When the bank teller, Alice Kendrick, returned to the apartment half an hour later, she found Sasha watching TV disconsolately, the Twin Cities Call Sheet screwed up into a ball on the coffee table in front of her.
Alice looked at the remains of the newspaper. “Bad news?” she asked.
Sasha smoothed out the paper. “Look at that,” she said, pointing toward a paragraph which she’d circled several times with a red pen.
It was a call for male actors, who needed to be well-skilled in a German accent and knowledgeable about stage combat, “in particular, fencing.”
“So?” said Alice, looking at her.
“So, that role would be perfect for me, except they only want male actors to audition.”
Alice shrugged. “There’s got to be plenty of other roles here, Sasha. This thing has four pages.”
“But this role would be perfect for me. My fencing skills would put me over the top, not to mention my German accent.”
“Well, why don’t you pull a Tootsie, then?” said Alice with a laugh.
Sasha blinked at her. “Pull a Tootsie? What the heck is that?”
Alice stared back. “Didn’t you ever see the movie Tootsie, with Dustin Hoffman? He’s an actor, but he can’t get a job because he’s such a jerk and no one will hire him anymore. So he dresses up as a woman and auditions for the role of a woman…and gets it.”
Sasha looked at her friend, and then nodded. “You know, that’s not such a bad idea.”
“Uh…Sasha,” said Alice. “I was joking.”
Sasha sat up straighter. “No, I think it’s a great idea,” she said excitedly. “Why not? I can dress up like a guy, act like a guy. It’d be a kick!”
“No, no, Sasha. Believe me, it will end in tears.”
“Tears?” laughed Sasha. “That’s a bit melodramatic.”
“Not at all. I’ll tell you exactly what will happen. You’ll audition for the role, and you’ll get it. During rehearsals, you will catch the eye of a male actor…or maybe the writer or director of the piece, whatever, and you’ll fall in love with him. He will be interested in you, as well, only he will think that you’re a guy. There will be many exchanges of glances, and wistful lunches or drinks after work…but then you’ll reveal that you are in actual fact a woman, and he will walk away from you, his hands in his pockets, as it starts to rain…”
“Is that what happened in Tootsie?” demanded Sasha.
“Jesus,” said Alice. “How can you be an actress when you don’t even know the most elementary movies? That’s from Shakespeare in Love! Of course, in the movie, Shakespeare isn’t gay, and so when he falls in love with Gywneth Paltrow, she falls in love with him, too. No problem. So everything would’ve ended all right if it weren’t for Colin Firth’s character. He makes off with her in the end.”
Alice paused for breath.
“But the point is,” she continued, “in real life any guy attracted to you in your guise as a guy…would be crushed to find out you were a woman instead. And you’ll spend the rest of your life pining after a guy you could never have.”
“You’ve got a melodramatic mind, Alice.”
Alice grinned. “Thank you.”
“Anyway,” said Sasha. “It’s not going to happen. Should I be so lucky as to get this part, I’ll reveal myself immediately, of course.”
“You say that now,” said Alice, “but I’ll bet you a hundred bucks that if you are cast in the part, you won’t say word one about it.”
“You’re on,” said Sasha, holding out her hand.
They shook on it.
Alice, shaking her head and smiling, went into her bedroom. She wasn’t worried. She didn’t believe for one minute that Sasha would get the part.
Sasha, meanwhile, made a list of items she’d have to pick up in order to pull off her successful masquerade as a man.
The rest of it will only appear in the novella. Please purchase it to keep this blog funded. ; )
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Chapter 15
I.
Keller reached into his inner pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook and a thin gold pen.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he said, “You heard the lady. Fill me in on Alain Pretorius. The full biography, everything you know about him. Start at the beginning, go on to the end, and then stop.”
Jan Janasz took out a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and then began to speak. Keller listened intently. At the same time, when he wasn’t taking down notes, his eyes flickered between Janasz and Adams, noting their body language. Janasz seemed nervous and ill-at-ease, Adams, self-absorbed, as if he wasn’t even paying attention to what was going on in the room. Occasionally he’d smile, at some thought in his head, Keller assumed.
When it is one’s job to capture a criminal, as it was for Keller and the rest of the agents at the Special Criminals Task Force, one learned how to profile him…or her. The same type of profiling was used if one wanted to kill someone, and get away with it. Keller, therefore, was on familiar ground as he took down notes of the background and proclivities of this Alain Pretorius.
But he was also making notes of Janasz and Adams, since his whole purpose here was to somehow prevent Taran Tula, or Marguerite Zelle as she was now calling herself, from successfully completing this assassination. To do that, he would also have to deal with repercussions, if any, from Janasz and Adams. Adams seemed to be a self-absorbed individual..indeed, Keller wasn’t sure precisely what his role was in this scenario. Janasz seemed to be completely in charge. If so, very foolish of him to have added a second person, this Adams, into the mix, when going about soliciting the assassination of his partner.
II.
Michele Bravo, meantime, was driving toward Sydney in the yellow convertible and loving every minute of it. What a glorious, glorious car. What a glorious feeling, with the wind whipping through her hair. She didn’t drive convertibles as a rule, all her cars were dark colored, old, slightly battered looking, so that she would always look as innocuous as possible. It was certainly nice to be driving such as sweet car for a change.
One day, one day when she retired, she’d have a car like this…
She arrived at the hotel, packed up her bags and those of Gus Keller, and summoned a bellhop to help her carry them down and stow them into the convertible. Then she settled the bill (leaving a generous tip in the suite for the maid) and headed out once more toward Dover Heights.
III.
Gus Keller took out his pajamas and slipped into them, leaving the rest of his clothing packed away in the suitcase. Taran Tula must have a military background, he thought. All of his clothes, slacks and shirts, were not folded flat, but rather rolled up into tight little cylinders. That supported his contention that her real identity was that of Michele Bravo… except Bravo had just been a military brat, not in the military herself. Would her father – who had been in the military – have taught her to fold her clothes in such a way?
He opened the curtains on the large picture window…out there was the ocean, and he could see the luminescent foam on the rollers. What a romantic sight…too bad he wasn’t out on the veranda…or whatever they called it in Australia, with Taran Tula at his side, drinking and kissing and making love…
Tula had returned with their suitcases, and then had told Keller that he could give her the information on Pretorius first thing in the morning, as it was so late. And all of them had separated and gone to their separate bedrooms.
Gus Keller sighed. He was in over his head. He knew it. But he could do nothing but continue on. He was not without skills, and though he may lack experience, he was certainly getting that quickly enough. The thing was just to stay alert, stay “frosty,” and be ready to take advantage of any opportunity offered.
He went to bed, and that night he dreamed of Taran Tula.
Keller reached into his inner pocket and drew out a small spiral notebook and a thin gold pen.
“Alright, gentlemen,” he said, “You heard the lady. Fill me in on Alain Pretorius. The full biography, everything you know about him. Start at the beginning, go on to the end, and then stop.”
Jan Janasz took out a handkerchief, wiped his brow, and then began to speak. Keller listened intently. At the same time, when he wasn’t taking down notes, his eyes flickered between Janasz and Adams, noting their body language. Janasz seemed nervous and ill-at-ease, Adams, self-absorbed, as if he wasn’t even paying attention to what was going on in the room. Occasionally he’d smile, at some thought in his head, Keller assumed.
When it is one’s job to capture a criminal, as it was for Keller and the rest of the agents at the Special Criminals Task Force, one learned how to profile him…or her. The same type of profiling was used if one wanted to kill someone, and get away with it. Keller, therefore, was on familiar ground as he took down notes of the background and proclivities of this Alain Pretorius.
But he was also making notes of Janasz and Adams, since his whole purpose here was to somehow prevent Taran Tula, or Marguerite Zelle as she was now calling herself, from successfully completing this assassination. To do that, he would also have to deal with repercussions, if any, from Janasz and Adams. Adams seemed to be a self-absorbed individual..indeed, Keller wasn’t sure precisely what his role was in this scenario. Janasz seemed to be completely in charge. If so, very foolish of him to have added a second person, this Adams, into the mix, when going about soliciting the assassination of his partner.
II.
Michele Bravo, meantime, was driving toward Sydney in the yellow convertible and loving every minute of it. What a glorious, glorious car. What a glorious feeling, with the wind whipping through her hair. She didn’t drive convertibles as a rule, all her cars were dark colored, old, slightly battered looking, so that she would always look as innocuous as possible. It was certainly nice to be driving such as sweet car for a change.
One day, one day when she retired, she’d have a car like this…
She arrived at the hotel, packed up her bags and those of Gus Keller, and summoned a bellhop to help her carry them down and stow them into the convertible. Then she settled the bill (leaving a generous tip in the suite for the maid) and headed out once more toward Dover Heights.
III.
Gus Keller took out his pajamas and slipped into them, leaving the rest of his clothing packed away in the suitcase. Taran Tula must have a military background, he thought. All of his clothes, slacks and shirts, were not folded flat, but rather rolled up into tight little cylinders. That supported his contention that her real identity was that of Michele Bravo… except Bravo had just been a military brat, not in the military herself. Would her father – who had been in the military – have taught her to fold her clothes in such a way?
He opened the curtains on the large picture window…out there was the ocean, and he could see the luminescent foam on the rollers. What a romantic sight…too bad he wasn’t out on the veranda…or whatever they called it in Australia, with Taran Tula at his side, drinking and kissing and making love…
Tula had returned with their suitcases, and then had told Keller that he could give her the information on Pretorius first thing in the morning, as it was so late. And all of them had separated and gone to their separate bedrooms.
Gus Keller sighed. He was in over his head. He knew it. But he could do nothing but continue on. He was not without skills, and though he may lack experience, he was certainly getting that quickly enough. The thing was just to stay alert, stay “frosty,” and be ready to take advantage of any opportunity offered.
He went to bed, and that night he dreamed of Taran Tula.
Monday, August 16, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire, Chapter 14
Six miles northeast of downtown Sydney is the affluent suburb of Dover Heights. In preparing for her “gaslighting” of Gus Keller, she had devised a scenario in which their (her and Keller’s) apparent employers lived in an upscale home in a secluded location.
Janasz had suggested that a home in Dover Heights would be just the thing. He would find one with a private beach, surrounded by an acre or so of woodlands, and rent it for three weeks, as per her instructions.
Before committing to the rental, he had sent her photos of the house and grounds, and she had sent him back her approval. Now, as they drove up the long driveway to the home, she recognized it, and saw that it was even more beautiful – and more secluded – than she had gathered from the photographs.
The house was three stories in height, situated at the crest of a hill with a beautiful view of the ocean beyond. A spiral iron staircase led down to the white sandy beach below. The driveway on which they had driven to the house had rambled through countryside that seemed to have been planted deliberately, on the left hand side of the road the woods were thick, on the right hand side, scattered sparsely. She could just barely see the difference between the two sides with the full moon providing silvery illumination.
Janasz pulled the Caravelle into a two-car garage, and he and Adams got out of the front seat while Michele and Keller stepped out of the back. The other space was filled by a bright yellow convertible. It was gorgeous. Keller had to force himself to stop salivating at the thought of it.
“Through here,” said Janasz, opening an inner door that led into the house itself. “Shoes, please,” Jansasz said, and they all took off their shoes and left them by the door.
He led them in their stocking feet through the hallway into a large, luxuriously furnished living room (the house had been rented furnished) with ocean-blue pile carpeting and white leather furniture, looking like tiny icebergs bobbing on the seas.
“Drinks?” asked Janasz.
Keller looked at Michele, who didn’t speak. “I’ll have a whisky,” he said gruffly. “Neat.”
“Just water for me,” said Michele.
Janasz handed glasses out to them, then fixed drinks for himself and Adams.
Once they were seated, Janasz said, “Well, here we are.”
“Indeed,” said Michele. “Ready to hear your proposition, Mr…Janasz.”
“Well, this is it. There’s an opal mine, out at Lightning Ridge. I own it, with my partner. And …I want to own it all alone. It’s as simple as that.”
Michele nodded. “Sounds simple enough.”
“He’s here in town, now. But he’s heading out to Lightning Ridge in another week or so. I want you to do the job there.”
“Why there?” asked Michele. “Why not in Sydney? He’s walking along, late at night, he gets attacked and knifed by a mugger, he dies. Easy.”
“Alain…that’s his name…Alain Pretorius….doesn’t walk along at night. At least, not without half a dozen mates. And you’d have to see Pretorius….he’s….” Janasz sketched his dimensions. “Six feet six, and built like a brick wall. No, Lightning Ridge is the place to do it. Or not even at Lightning Ridge, but on the way there or on the way back.”
Michele raised up her hands. “We’re the professionals here, Mr. Janasz. Suppose you let us decide were we do it. We need to research the man thoroughly. Put together a dossier on him. Where is he right now?”
“Well…” Janasz smiled warmly. “As a matter of fact he lives just the next house over. We bought all this land together, back when we were…more friendly than we are now. Divided it into two and built two houses. We share the beach and the back grounds. He stops by quite often. In fact, he’ll be here tomorrow night. I’m having a cocktail party.”
“We’ll want to attend that,” said Michele.
“Of course. As a matter of fact, I was thinking, why don’t you two put up here? There’s plenty of room. There’s a gym in the basement, there’s private swimming off the beach, plus you could get in some skeet or trap shooting if you so desire.”
“I like that idea,” said Michele. “We will take you up on your offer.”
Keller looked at her sharply. What the hell?
“Separate rooms, of course,” Michele told Janasz with a smile. “Mr. Largo and I are colleagues, nothing more.”
“Of course,” said Janasz. “Indeed, why don’t I show you through the rooms, and you can take your pick?”
As Keller followed Michele and Janasz through the tour of the upstairs bedrooms – and they were all luxurious – he was thinking furiously. Whatever plan Taran Tula had for her assassination of this Praetorius fellow, surely it was a mistake to be seen in close company with the men that were actually doing the hiring of the hit! What could she be thinking!
Slow down there, cowboy, Keller told himself. Don’t go thinking you’re actually going to kill this guy. You’re going to stop this assassination. So don’t go trying to think how you’re going to kill him, think about how you’re going to keep from killing him. And at the same time, you get to live in this really swank joint for a few days.
“Suitcases.”
“What was that, Mr. Largo?” asked Michele.
“Our suitcases are still at the hotel,” Keller told her.
Michele turned to Janasz. “You have a car you can put at our disposal, don’t you?”
“Of course. You saw that yellow convertible in the garage. Feel free to use it.”
“Very good. Well, I will go back to the hotel and pick up our bags and check out. Mr. Largo, would you mind staying here and start putting together a preliminary dossier on Mr. Praetorius?”
“Sure,” said Keller.
“Then I’ll excuse myself, and be back in an hour or so.”
Michele walked out of the room.
Keller turned to face the two men…looking into their friendly faces…hiding black hearts.
“Another whisky,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Largo, of course,” said Janasz obsequiously, hurrying back to the bar.
Hmm… thought Keller. Janasz certainly was afraid of him. He found himself liking that…liking the fact that his mere presence caused fear in other people…even if they were black hearted bastards…
Janasz had suggested that a home in Dover Heights would be just the thing. He would find one with a private beach, surrounded by an acre or so of woodlands, and rent it for three weeks, as per her instructions.
Before committing to the rental, he had sent her photos of the house and grounds, and she had sent him back her approval. Now, as they drove up the long driveway to the home, she recognized it, and saw that it was even more beautiful – and more secluded – than she had gathered from the photographs.
The house was three stories in height, situated at the crest of a hill with a beautiful view of the ocean beyond. A spiral iron staircase led down to the white sandy beach below. The driveway on which they had driven to the house had rambled through countryside that seemed to have been planted deliberately, on the left hand side of the road the woods were thick, on the right hand side, scattered sparsely. She could just barely see the difference between the two sides with the full moon providing silvery illumination.
Janasz pulled the Caravelle into a two-car garage, and he and Adams got out of the front seat while Michele and Keller stepped out of the back. The other space was filled by a bright yellow convertible. It was gorgeous. Keller had to force himself to stop salivating at the thought of it.
“Through here,” said Janasz, opening an inner door that led into the house itself. “Shoes, please,” Jansasz said, and they all took off their shoes and left them by the door.
He led them in their stocking feet through the hallway into a large, luxuriously furnished living room (the house had been rented furnished) with ocean-blue pile carpeting and white leather furniture, looking like tiny icebergs bobbing on the seas.
“Drinks?” asked Janasz.
Keller looked at Michele, who didn’t speak. “I’ll have a whisky,” he said gruffly. “Neat.”
“Just water for me,” said Michele.
Janasz handed glasses out to them, then fixed drinks for himself and Adams.
Once they were seated, Janasz said, “Well, here we are.”
“Indeed,” said Michele. “Ready to hear your proposition, Mr…Janasz.”
“Well, this is it. There’s an opal mine, out at Lightning Ridge. I own it, with my partner. And …I want to own it all alone. It’s as simple as that.”
Michele nodded. “Sounds simple enough.”
“He’s here in town, now. But he’s heading out to Lightning Ridge in another week or so. I want you to do the job there.”
“Why there?” asked Michele. “Why not in Sydney? He’s walking along, late at night, he gets attacked and knifed by a mugger, he dies. Easy.”
“Alain…that’s his name…Alain Pretorius….doesn’t walk along at night. At least, not without half a dozen mates. And you’d have to see Pretorius….he’s….” Janasz sketched his dimensions. “Six feet six, and built like a brick wall. No, Lightning Ridge is the place to do it. Or not even at Lightning Ridge, but on the way there or on the way back.”
Michele raised up her hands. “We’re the professionals here, Mr. Janasz. Suppose you let us decide were we do it. We need to research the man thoroughly. Put together a dossier on him. Where is he right now?”
“Well…” Janasz smiled warmly. “As a matter of fact he lives just the next house over. We bought all this land together, back when we were…more friendly than we are now. Divided it into two and built two houses. We share the beach and the back grounds. He stops by quite often. In fact, he’ll be here tomorrow night. I’m having a cocktail party.”
“We’ll want to attend that,” said Michele.
“Of course. As a matter of fact, I was thinking, why don’t you two put up here? There’s plenty of room. There’s a gym in the basement, there’s private swimming off the beach, plus you could get in some skeet or trap shooting if you so desire.”
“I like that idea,” said Michele. “We will take you up on your offer.”
Keller looked at her sharply. What the hell?
“Separate rooms, of course,” Michele told Janasz with a smile. “Mr. Largo and I are colleagues, nothing more.”
“Of course,” said Janasz. “Indeed, why don’t I show you through the rooms, and you can take your pick?”
As Keller followed Michele and Janasz through the tour of the upstairs bedrooms – and they were all luxurious – he was thinking furiously. Whatever plan Taran Tula had for her assassination of this Praetorius fellow, surely it was a mistake to be seen in close company with the men that were actually doing the hiring of the hit! What could she be thinking!
Slow down there, cowboy, Keller told himself. Don’t go thinking you’re actually going to kill this guy. You’re going to stop this assassination. So don’t go trying to think how you’re going to kill him, think about how you’re going to keep from killing him. And at the same time, you get to live in this really swank joint for a few days.
“Suitcases.”
“What was that, Mr. Largo?” asked Michele.
“Our suitcases are still at the hotel,” Keller told her.
Michele turned to Janasz. “You have a car you can put at our disposal, don’t you?”
“Of course. You saw that yellow convertible in the garage. Feel free to use it.”
“Very good. Well, I will go back to the hotel and pick up our bags and check out. Mr. Largo, would you mind staying here and start putting together a preliminary dossier on Mr. Praetorius?”
“Sure,” said Keller.
“Then I’ll excuse myself, and be back in an hour or so.”
Michele walked out of the room.
Keller turned to face the two men…looking into their friendly faces…hiding black hearts.
“Another whisky,” he said.
“Of course, Mr. Largo, of course,” said Janasz obsequiously, hurrying back to the bar.
Hmm… thought Keller. Janasz certainly was afraid of him. He found himself liking that…liking the fact that his mere presence caused fear in other people…even if they were black hearted bastards…
Friday, August 13, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 13
I.
Gus Keller was very conscious of the warmth of Michele’s body next to his. They sat in the rear seat of a Volkswagen Caravelle, a car similar to an SUV. Jan was driving, with Adams seated next to him.
He had been so impressed with her shooting skills, but of course he didn’t dare say so, with Janasz and Adams just a few feet away from them.
But he was also starting to feel a bit annoyed, Keller admitted to himself. After all, even though he’d been a rookie at the Special Crimes Bureau, and at all times intended for a desk job rather than one out in the field (he was an art expert, for god’s sake!) he’d had training in hand-to-hand combat and in firing pistols. Not only had he been trained in firing pistols, but he’d achieved marksman status, as well.
Keller grinned to himself. He probably couldn’t hit a moving target, but if someone were standing stationary between 20 feet and 40 feet away from him, he’d be able to blow them away.
The point was, he didn’t like the way he was being used. He may be Taran Tula’s hired assassin here, but it was ridiculous to keep him in the dark like this. Once they were alone…wherever it was they were going…he would have a little chat with her and find out exactly what the hell she wanted him to do for her. Time to assert himself.
II.
What was he thinking? Michele wondered, as she gazed out of the window of the Caravelle at the lights of Sydney passing by. The sun had set, and the streets had been awash in a neon glare as they’d driven through the downtown area of Sydney. Now it was dark with only the occasional street lamp as they had entered the residential area.
As she looked out of the window, part of it acted like a mirror, allowing her to see her reflection in the glass, and Keller’s reflection as well. She saw him smile to himself.
What was he thinking? Had she consolidated his belief that her skills as an assassin were non pareil? Once in a while, no matter how good your rumor and gossip machine, you had to show your skills, and she’d generally contrived to do it at a shooting range or on a trap or skeet shooting field.
And her audience had been duly impressed. Not only the actors Janasz and Adams, and Keller, but also a handful of people, mostly men, who’d been at the firing range to practice their own shooting. A couple of them had actually come up to her and expressed their approbation, as she and the rest of her group had been leaving the building.
Michele smiled to herself. She did so like approbation, she had to admit.
III.
Jan Janasz drove along, thinking to himself what a privilege it was to be working with Marguerite Zelle. He should have known that she’d be an expert markswoman, considering that it had been she who’d arranged for him to require her to prove herself in that regard, but it had been impressive to watch nevertheless.
What a woman! Actress, producer, markswoman… he wondered what else she was good at… that flowing dress she wore must hide a voluptuous body…a Ruebenesque body…he wondered if he’d ever get to see it.
IV.
Adams sat lost in his own thoughts. He had been cast in the role of Laurence Olivier in the play Orson's Shadow, and he had made the mistake of watching Zero Mostel's movie version of the play. He'd known better than to do that...why, why, why had he succumbed to curiousity? He'd never be able to get Mostel and Gene Wilder's performances out of his head.
Why, why, why had he done it?
Gus Keller was very conscious of the warmth of Michele’s body next to his. They sat in the rear seat of a Volkswagen Caravelle, a car similar to an SUV. Jan was driving, with Adams seated next to him.
He had been so impressed with her shooting skills, but of course he didn’t dare say so, with Janasz and Adams just a few feet away from them.
But he was also starting to feel a bit annoyed, Keller admitted to himself. After all, even though he’d been a rookie at the Special Crimes Bureau, and at all times intended for a desk job rather than one out in the field (he was an art expert, for god’s sake!) he’d had training in hand-to-hand combat and in firing pistols. Not only had he been trained in firing pistols, but he’d achieved marksman status, as well.
Keller grinned to himself. He probably couldn’t hit a moving target, but if someone were standing stationary between 20 feet and 40 feet away from him, he’d be able to blow them away.
The point was, he didn’t like the way he was being used. He may be Taran Tula’s hired assassin here, but it was ridiculous to keep him in the dark like this. Once they were alone…wherever it was they were going…he would have a little chat with her and find out exactly what the hell she wanted him to do for her. Time to assert himself.
II.
What was he thinking? Michele wondered, as she gazed out of the window of the Caravelle at the lights of Sydney passing by. The sun had set, and the streets had been awash in a neon glare as they’d driven through the downtown area of Sydney. Now it was dark with only the occasional street lamp as they had entered the residential area.
As she looked out of the window, part of it acted like a mirror, allowing her to see her reflection in the glass, and Keller’s reflection as well. She saw him smile to himself.
What was he thinking? Had she consolidated his belief that her skills as an assassin were non pareil? Once in a while, no matter how good your rumor and gossip machine, you had to show your skills, and she’d generally contrived to do it at a shooting range or on a trap or skeet shooting field.
And her audience had been duly impressed. Not only the actors Janasz and Adams, and Keller, but also a handful of people, mostly men, who’d been at the firing range to practice their own shooting. A couple of them had actually come up to her and expressed their approbation, as she and the rest of her group had been leaving the building.
Michele smiled to herself. She did so like approbation, she had to admit.
III.
Jan Janasz drove along, thinking to himself what a privilege it was to be working with Marguerite Zelle. He should have known that she’d be an expert markswoman, considering that it had been she who’d arranged for him to require her to prove herself in that regard, but it had been impressive to watch nevertheless.
What a woman! Actress, producer, markswoman… he wondered what else she was good at… that flowing dress she wore must hide a voluptuous body…a Ruebenesque body…he wondered if he’d ever get to see it.
IV.
Adams sat lost in his own thoughts. He had been cast in the role of Laurence Olivier in the play Orson's Shadow, and he had made the mistake of watching Zero Mostel's movie version of the play. He'd known better than to do that...why, why, why had he succumbed to curiousity? He'd never be able to get Mostel and Gene Wilder's performances out of his head.
Why, why, why had he done it?
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Michele Bravo Playing With Fire Chapter 12
“So what’s on the schedule for today?” asked Keller, as he joined Michele in the living room portion of their two-bedroom suite the next morning. He wore cargo shorts and a white shirt. Michele, he saw, was wearing a colorful caftan.
“At 7 pm, we will be visiting a man by the name of Janasz." said Michele. "He’ll be giving us our assignment. Until that time, we may as well continue to enjoy the sights of Sydney. Let’s start with a bus tour of the city, shall we?”
“Sounds good,” said Keller.
Michele discovered that she enjoyed Keller’s company, as they spent the rest of the day together. She had already known that he was multi-lingual and knew about art, in particular the Entartete Kunst, but he was also knowledgeable on a vast range of other subjects …almost as vast a range of subjects as those in which she was an expert. They argued quite amiably about architecture, modern art, economics, political theory and so on, so that the time seemed to fly by and suddenly it was 6 pm.
They returned to their hotel room, and at Michele's request changed into the one tuxedo that he'd brought along. Michele also changed into an evening gown. Another all-covering gown in which she looked gorgeous, he thought.
They were both ready by 6:15pm. Keller knew enough not to articulate his surprise or approbation that it had only taken Michele 15 minutes to change. He had had only a couple of girlfriends himself, but he knew all the clichés…it should have taken her a couple of hours and changing into 5 or 6 different outfits…but then, she was Taran Tula.
“Alright, Keller,” she said, as they entered the taxi. “I’ll be going back to calling you Mr. Largo from now on. And you will refer to me as Marguerite.”
“Marguerite?” asked Keller in surprise.
“Marguerite Zelle.”
Keller nodded.”As you wish.”
Marguerite had given the cabby an address. To Keller’s surprise, they did not draw up at someone’s home, or in a sordid back alley in some broken down neighborhood, but rather at the Sydney Shooting Center. It was a huge building, where the Australian national shooting team held their practices, not to mention the general public.
“I’ll take care of providing the proof of our abilities, Mr. Largo,” said Marguerite as they exited the taxi. “I presume you are more at home with dispatching someone in an up close and personal manner, eh?”
“Indeed,” said Keller, calmly.
Inside the lobby, they were greeted by two men, also in tuxedos. “I’m Jan Janasz,” said a youngish but bald man, shaking their hands. “And this is my associate, Adams.”
Keller said nothing, just concentrated on looking calm, cool, collected and suave.
Janasz said, “Thank you for meeting us here. You’ll appreciate that I only know you two by reputation. I’ve arranged a little test. We’ve reserved the running man range.”
The four of them walked into the Shooting Center proper. On one side of the very long building were rows of seating, to accomodate an audience when competitions were held. The shooting range was actually just a broad expanse of dirt running along the other half of the building...no lanes separating the shooters. There were about twenty shooting stands, each about fifteen feet distant from its neighbor.
All types of shooting took place here: trap, skeet, air rifle and air pistol.
Janasz picked up a .177 calibre air rifle by the forestock and held it out to Michele and Keller.
“I presume you’ll want a practice round, to get a feel for the weapon?” he asked.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Michele, taking the rifle from him.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with competitive rules,” said Janasz. "The target will run to your left and then back to your right at slow speed, and then past you and back at high speed. 30 shots at slow speed, 30 shots at high speed. Olympic caliber shooters get 45 bullseyes out of 60 shots.”
“Well,” said Michele, checking the rifle over, “in our business we typically make our first shot count, don’t we, Mr. Largo?”
Keller only smiled, what he hoped was a sardonic, menacing smile. These two guys, Janasz and Adams, were clearly on edge. Reputable businessmen, probably, not used to dealing with hired assassins. Was there a tinge of fear in their glances at him? Yet they’d had the nerve to ask for a demonstration! He hoped Taran Tula was as good with a rifle as she apparently thought she was.
"So," said Michele, "I guarantee that my first shot will be a bullseye. After that I hesitate to say."
Janasz and Adams looked at each other uncertainly, then Janasz shrugged. "Well, let's see you then," he said.
“Send the slow target by me just once,” requested Michele, “So I can get the feel of the rifle, alright?”
Janasz nodded and signaled the firing range operator, who flicked the appropriate switch.
Michele assumed a parallel stance to the target, lifted the rifle and sighted, and began popping away.
At the end of the trial run, she’d amassed 8 bullseyes out of 15.
Michele hefted the rifle a couple of times and nodded, satisfied.
“Okay, Mr. Janasz. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the hang of it now. Shall we do it for real this time?”
Jan nodded and signaled to the operator once more.
This time, Michele did better. By the time the slow target had completed its circuit, she’d pumped 27 out of 30 bullets into the bullseye.
Keller watched Janasz and Adams exchange glances. No longer uncertain ones, this time. Impressed ones. He was feeling pretty impressed himself.
“Fast target please,” called out Michele.
The operator nodded and flicked the switch that sped up the target. Michele lifted the rifle to her shoulder smoothly and began to fire away calmly.
When that round was done…she’d pumped 27 out of 30 bullets into that bullseye as well.
Not bad, Michele thought to herself. It had actually been several months since she’d practiced any shooting of that kind, but at one point she’d dedicated quite a lot of time to perfecting her eye. She'd fallen in love with skeet shooting at age 18, after all, when she'd been on that slow boat to England. Ever since she'd pursuied the sport and related ones. Nice to know that it was riding a bike, you never lost the skill.
Michele handed the rifle back to Jan, who took it and gazed at her admiringly.
"Just call me Annie Oakley," ahe said with a smile.
“I think we’ve learned everything we needed to know, Ms. Zelle,” he said. “I hope you didn’t take offense.”
“Oh, not at all. Besides, I enjoyed it.”
“Ta, ever so. Well, let us adjourn to my house and commence to talk business.”
“At 7 pm, we will be visiting a man by the name of Janasz." said Michele. "He’ll be giving us our assignment. Until that time, we may as well continue to enjoy the sights of Sydney. Let’s start with a bus tour of the city, shall we?”
“Sounds good,” said Keller.
Michele discovered that she enjoyed Keller’s company, as they spent the rest of the day together. She had already known that he was multi-lingual and knew about art, in particular the Entartete Kunst, but he was also knowledgeable on a vast range of other subjects …almost as vast a range of subjects as those in which she was an expert. They argued quite amiably about architecture, modern art, economics, political theory and so on, so that the time seemed to fly by and suddenly it was 6 pm.
They returned to their hotel room, and at Michele's request changed into the one tuxedo that he'd brought along. Michele also changed into an evening gown. Another all-covering gown in which she looked gorgeous, he thought.
They were both ready by 6:15pm. Keller knew enough not to articulate his surprise or approbation that it had only taken Michele 15 minutes to change. He had had only a couple of girlfriends himself, but he knew all the clichés…it should have taken her a couple of hours and changing into 5 or 6 different outfits…but then, she was Taran Tula.
“Alright, Keller,” she said, as they entered the taxi. “I’ll be going back to calling you Mr. Largo from now on. And you will refer to me as Marguerite.”
“Marguerite?” asked Keller in surprise.
“Marguerite Zelle.”
Keller nodded.”As you wish.”
Marguerite had given the cabby an address. To Keller’s surprise, they did not draw up at someone’s home, or in a sordid back alley in some broken down neighborhood, but rather at the Sydney Shooting Center. It was a huge building, where the Australian national shooting team held their practices, not to mention the general public.
“I’ll take care of providing the proof of our abilities, Mr. Largo,” said Marguerite as they exited the taxi. “I presume you are more at home with dispatching someone in an up close and personal manner, eh?”
“Indeed,” said Keller, calmly.
Inside the lobby, they were greeted by two men, also in tuxedos. “I’m Jan Janasz,” said a youngish but bald man, shaking their hands. “And this is my associate, Adams.”
Keller said nothing, just concentrated on looking calm, cool, collected and suave.
Janasz said, “Thank you for meeting us here. You’ll appreciate that I only know you two by reputation. I’ve arranged a little test. We’ve reserved the running man range.”
The four of them walked into the Shooting Center proper. On one side of the very long building were rows of seating, to accomodate an audience when competitions were held. The shooting range was actually just a broad expanse of dirt running along the other half of the building...no lanes separating the shooters. There were about twenty shooting stands, each about fifteen feet distant from its neighbor.
All types of shooting took place here: trap, skeet, air rifle and air pistol.
Janasz picked up a .177 calibre air rifle by the forestock and held it out to Michele and Keller.
“I presume you’ll want a practice round, to get a feel for the weapon?” he asked.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Michele, taking the rifle from him.
“I’m sure you’re familiar with competitive rules,” said Janasz. "The target will run to your left and then back to your right at slow speed, and then past you and back at high speed. 30 shots at slow speed, 30 shots at high speed. Olympic caliber shooters get 45 bullseyes out of 60 shots.”
“Well,” said Michele, checking the rifle over, “in our business we typically make our first shot count, don’t we, Mr. Largo?”
Keller only smiled, what he hoped was a sardonic, menacing smile. These two guys, Janasz and Adams, were clearly on edge. Reputable businessmen, probably, not used to dealing with hired assassins. Was there a tinge of fear in their glances at him? Yet they’d had the nerve to ask for a demonstration! He hoped Taran Tula was as good with a rifle as she apparently thought she was.
"So," said Michele, "I guarantee that my first shot will be a bullseye. After that I hesitate to say."
Janasz and Adams looked at each other uncertainly, then Janasz shrugged. "Well, let's see you then," he said.
“Send the slow target by me just once,” requested Michele, “So I can get the feel of the rifle, alright?”
Janasz nodded and signaled the firing range operator, who flicked the appropriate switch.
Michele assumed a parallel stance to the target, lifted the rifle and sighted, and began popping away.
At the end of the trial run, she’d amassed 8 bullseyes out of 15.
Michele hefted the rifle a couple of times and nodded, satisfied.
“Okay, Mr. Janasz. I’m pretty sure I’ve got the hang of it now. Shall we do it for real this time?”
Jan nodded and signaled to the operator once more.
This time, Michele did better. By the time the slow target had completed its circuit, she’d pumped 27 out of 30 bullets into the bullseye.
Keller watched Janasz and Adams exchange glances. No longer uncertain ones, this time. Impressed ones. He was feeling pretty impressed himself.
“Fast target please,” called out Michele.
The operator nodded and flicked the switch that sped up the target. Michele lifted the rifle to her shoulder smoothly and began to fire away calmly.
When that round was done…she’d pumped 27 out of 30 bullets into that bullseye as well.
Not bad, Michele thought to herself. It had actually been several months since she’d practiced any shooting of that kind, but at one point she’d dedicated quite a lot of time to perfecting her eye. She'd fallen in love with skeet shooting at age 18, after all, when she'd been on that slow boat to England. Ever since she'd pursuied the sport and related ones. Nice to know that it was riding a bike, you never lost the skill.
Michele handed the rifle back to Jan, who took it and gazed at her admiringly.
"Just call me Annie Oakley," ahe said with a smile.
“I think we’ve learned everything we needed to know, Ms. Zelle,” he said. “I hope you didn’t take offense.”
“Oh, not at all. Besides, I enjoyed it.”
“Ta, ever so. Well, let us adjourn to my house and commence to talk business.”
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Erotica by Bravo - Dighton & Forrest: A Game of Golf
Part 4 of 4
1. The 7th Hole
“Those clouds are getting darker and darker,” Peter murmured as they walked up to the 7th hole.
“Yes, and the wind is really picking up,” agreed Sasha. “If my game goes any more to hell, it will be the wind’s fault.”
“I don’t think your game can get any worse,” said Peter. “Nevertheless, you’d better tee off first.”
Sasha shook her driver at him. “I’m going to get you for that, Peter,” she said.
But she teed off first, all the same.
“Ha!” she said, as the ball sailed straight and true. “Try to beat that, you!”
Peter waggled his driver a few times, then swung at his ball with all his might.
“No, no, no,” he yelled as the ball disappeared into the trees.
“Shall I help you look for it, Peter?” said Sasha sweetly.
“No, no,” said Peter, “I thank you, my darling, but I can find it myself.”
“Alright, if that’s the way you’re gonna be,” said Sasha. That was the problem with using a scene from a famous movie…or a famous book… as source material for one’s plan of seduction. Peter knew very well that she had some kind of a “ringer” ball in her pocket. If she’d managed to switch it, so that Peter would use it, he’d lose their 9-hole match, regardless of how much clothing she had left at the end of the 9th hole.
Sasha smiled to herself. She had no doubt that they’d play strip golf a couple of more times throughout the years…and sooner or later Peter would be off his guard…and then she would strike!
Time to concentrate on this bloody hole. She had to win one of them. Too shaming if she was totally shut out.
Therefore, she took her iron and approached her ball carefully. She hit the ball with three quarter speed, and it went sailing straight toward the green.
I’ve got the hang of this now, she thought.
Meantime, Peter had taken another dropped ball, and took his iron to it. The ball went back into the woods.
“Sonuvabitch,” he said.
With her next strike, she hit the ball onto the green and quite close to the pin.
Damn, she thought. I might have a chance at this one.
Peter blasted his ball out of the woods and back onto the fairway.
“Peter, look where I am,” she called.
“I see ya.”
“Hit your ball first, then you can watch me wield my putter.”
Peter took his turn, and this time managed to hit the ball relatively straight. It ended up in a bunker beside the green.
“Alright, Peter, watch this,” said Sasha, as Peter arrived.
She took her putter, assumed her stance, and putted. The ball trickled in.
“Yeah, baby!” shouted Sasha.
“Well done,” said Peter with a grin. “Now curtail your unseemly display until I finish up here.”
It took Peter two more attempts before he sank his own ball.
Sadly, Peter removed his porkpie hat as they walked back to the cart, and placed it behind his seat.
The 8th Hole
As Peter addressed the ball at the 8th tee, Sasha raised her arms high as she yawned broadly. Peter never could resist her perky bosoms.
But the bastard was too intent on addressing the ball and didn’t even notice. Damn this game!
And he hit it straight down the fairway, too.
Sasha approached her own ball on the tee a little petulantly. It was getting cold with that wind, and the clouds were overhead now.
She took several breaths to center herself, then approached the ball and swung with all her might. There was a sweet smacking sound and her own ball went sweet and true down the fairway. When it rolled to a halt it was only a few yards away from Peter’s.
“Yeah!”
Peter, concerned that he had been shanking his balls consistently to the right, approached his ball carefully. He double checked his stance, double checked his grip on the iron, and then attacked the ball.
“Hah!” he said as the ball rose into the air and dropped onto the green.
“Match that, my darling,” Peter said.
Sasha approached her ball as carefully, but her hit was less successful. The ball skittered a few yards short of the green.
It took Peter a couple of tries to get his ball into the cup, but it took Sasha three tries.
When they reached the cart, Sasha sat on the seat, then slipped off her shoe and ceremoniously stuffed it behind her seat. Peter stared at her incredulously.
“What the hell? Your shoe?”
“My shoe,” said Sasha smugly.
“We’ve only got one hole left,” pointed out Peter. “You can’t be taking off your shoes.”
“What we should have done,” said Sasha, “was agree to take 2 pieces of clothes off at a time. Too late now.”
“But you can’t take off your shoes.”
“Oh, all right, Peter, all right. If you can win this next hole, I won't take off my shoes.”
Wasn't quite the same thing, Peter griped to himself. Because she'd be taking off all her clothes at the end anyway. Not the same thing at all. The next time they played this game, if they ever did, they'd have to quantify the rules a bit better.
The 9th Hole
As they stood on the tee of the 9th hole, it began to drizzle.
Peter drove off quickly, and again hit it well. Sasha followed suit, and her ball was once again only a few yards away from Peter’s.
Peter swung hard…and the ball rose and fell after only 10 feet.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded of the gods of golf.
“Quiet, please,” said Sasha. “I need to be able to concentrate.”
Her ball went about 30 feet.
“What the hell was *that?” she demanded. She tested the rigidness of her golf club once more, but it refused to bend.
Peter’s next attempt was a bit more successful, and his Slazenger soared through the air and hit the green.
Sasha’s attempt was a bit more respectable as well, falling only just short.
The rain began to come down harder.
Peter putted toward the hole, but misjudged the ease with which the ball could roll over wet grass.
Sasha’s next attempt brought her up onto the green.
Peter attempted another putt, and his ball rolled toward the hole, rimmed it, and rolled a few feet away.
Sasha shook the water off her putter, then attempted her own shot. Her heart rose as it looked as if her ball was going to fall into the cup, but it also rimmed out.
“Bad luck, my dear,” said Peter. He knocked his ball into the hole.
“Winner, and still champion!” he cried, raising both hands in the air.
“Ye-es,” said Sasha. She wrung some water out of the bottom of her tube top.
They returned to the cart. Peter reached into the golf bag and pulled out a blanket, two champagne glasses, and a bottle of champagne.
“There’s a nice bunker over there,” said Peter. “Spread the blanket, have a glass, and then…”
A bolt of lightning shot through the black clouds…
A few seconds later, rumble thundered around them.
“Peter,” said Sasha, “Much as I’d love to make passionate love while the rain caresses our bodies…”
“Yes…?”
“And little as I know about golf, one thing I do know is that no one is supposed to be on a golf course when there’s lightning.”
“But having sex in the middle of a raging thunderstorm…it’ll be classic…”
“Well, let’s work up to that, shall we?” said Sasha. “Look…there’s an equipment shed over there. The perfect spot.”
Peter flinched as the rain came down like a solid sheet of water.
“Okay, you win,” he said. “Let’s get in that shed.”
They walked over to the shed, which was not locked, and entered. Sasha remained by the door while Peter spread out the blanket, rather wet as it was, and then concentrated on pouring champagne. When he turned around, he watched appreciatively as Sasha removed her tube top. Her breasts bobbed beautifully, glistening.
“You look beautiful, Sasha,” he said huskily.
He handed her the glass of champagne, intertwined his arm with hers, and they drank their champagne simultaneously.
Then Sasha set down her glass and began to unbutton Peter’s shirt. As he took off the unbuttoned shirt she then undid his belt and unzipped his slacks. He stepped out of them, and then he rolled up his clothes into a bundle and placed it on the blanket, laying down and resting his head upon it. Sasha straddled him and bent down to kiss him while her breasts brushed his chest.
They kissed long and deeply, while Peter cupped her breasts and rubbed them against his chest.
Sasha could feel him growing underneath her, and reached down and maneuvered around until his cock slid into her. Then, she clenched her thighs around his waist and began to rock her hips back and forth, meantime leaning down and kissing Peter’s neck, going down to his nipples and nibbling.
Peter rested his hands on her hips and lay with closed eyes, enjoying the feeling of her body on his, his cock being squeezed and massaged by her vagina, her lips nibbling and licking his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips, his neck.
Sasha enjoyed her own feeling of power, pleasuring herself at her own speed, enjoying the saltiness of his firm skin as she ran her tongue over every angle of his handsome face, rubbing her hands over his powerful musculature.
The rain pounded on the roof of the shed and thunder rumbled, a splendid soundtrack to their lovemaking.
Finally Sasha could feel the fluttering in her thighs that told her she was about to cum, and then a sudden flood of warmth. She clenched her legs even tighter, clenched her buttocks and rose up and down, up and down…
“Ah, god,” she said, as the pleasure hit her. She buried her fingers in Peter’s hair and buried her face in his neck as she felt the waves of pleasure ripple through her.
“Keep going,” gasped Peter.
Sasha resumed her attentions to him, and shortly afterward, Peter’s body was shuddering as well.
Afterwards, they lay there, relaxing, and kissing, as the rain continued to beat a counterpoint above their heads
1. The 7th Hole
“Those clouds are getting darker and darker,” Peter murmured as they walked up to the 7th hole.
“Yes, and the wind is really picking up,” agreed Sasha. “If my game goes any more to hell, it will be the wind’s fault.”
“I don’t think your game can get any worse,” said Peter. “Nevertheless, you’d better tee off first.”
Sasha shook her driver at him. “I’m going to get you for that, Peter,” she said.
But she teed off first, all the same.
“Ha!” she said, as the ball sailed straight and true. “Try to beat that, you!”
Peter waggled his driver a few times, then swung at his ball with all his might.
“No, no, no,” he yelled as the ball disappeared into the trees.
“Shall I help you look for it, Peter?” said Sasha sweetly.
“No, no,” said Peter, “I thank you, my darling, but I can find it myself.”
“Alright, if that’s the way you’re gonna be,” said Sasha. That was the problem with using a scene from a famous movie…or a famous book… as source material for one’s plan of seduction. Peter knew very well that she had some kind of a “ringer” ball in her pocket. If she’d managed to switch it, so that Peter would use it, he’d lose their 9-hole match, regardless of how much clothing she had left at the end of the 9th hole.
Sasha smiled to herself. She had no doubt that they’d play strip golf a couple of more times throughout the years…and sooner or later Peter would be off his guard…and then she would strike!
Time to concentrate on this bloody hole. She had to win one of them. Too shaming if she was totally shut out.
Therefore, she took her iron and approached her ball carefully. She hit the ball with three quarter speed, and it went sailing straight toward the green.
I’ve got the hang of this now, she thought.
Meantime, Peter had taken another dropped ball, and took his iron to it. The ball went back into the woods.
“Sonuvabitch,” he said.
With her next strike, she hit the ball onto the green and quite close to the pin.
Damn, she thought. I might have a chance at this one.
Peter blasted his ball out of the woods and back onto the fairway.
“Peter, look where I am,” she called.
“I see ya.”
“Hit your ball first, then you can watch me wield my putter.”
Peter took his turn, and this time managed to hit the ball relatively straight. It ended up in a bunker beside the green.
“Alright, Peter, watch this,” said Sasha, as Peter arrived.
She took her putter, assumed her stance, and putted. The ball trickled in.
“Yeah, baby!” shouted Sasha.
“Well done,” said Peter with a grin. “Now curtail your unseemly display until I finish up here.”
It took Peter two more attempts before he sank his own ball.
Sadly, Peter removed his porkpie hat as they walked back to the cart, and placed it behind his seat.
The 8th Hole
As Peter addressed the ball at the 8th tee, Sasha raised her arms high as she yawned broadly. Peter never could resist her perky bosoms.
But the bastard was too intent on addressing the ball and didn’t even notice. Damn this game!
And he hit it straight down the fairway, too.
Sasha approached her own ball on the tee a little petulantly. It was getting cold with that wind, and the clouds were overhead now.
She took several breaths to center herself, then approached the ball and swung with all her might. There was a sweet smacking sound and her own ball went sweet and true down the fairway. When it rolled to a halt it was only a few yards away from Peter’s.
“Yeah!”
Peter, concerned that he had been shanking his balls consistently to the right, approached his ball carefully. He double checked his stance, double checked his grip on the iron, and then attacked the ball.
“Hah!” he said as the ball rose into the air and dropped onto the green.
“Match that, my darling,” Peter said.
Sasha approached her ball as carefully, but her hit was less successful. The ball skittered a few yards short of the green.
It took Peter a couple of tries to get his ball into the cup, but it took Sasha three tries.
When they reached the cart, Sasha sat on the seat, then slipped off her shoe and ceremoniously stuffed it behind her seat. Peter stared at her incredulously.
“What the hell? Your shoe?”
“My shoe,” said Sasha smugly.
“We’ve only got one hole left,” pointed out Peter. “You can’t be taking off your shoes.”
“What we should have done,” said Sasha, “was agree to take 2 pieces of clothes off at a time. Too late now.”
“But you can’t take off your shoes.”
“Oh, all right, Peter, all right. If you can win this next hole, I won't take off my shoes.”
Wasn't quite the same thing, Peter griped to himself. Because she'd be taking off all her clothes at the end anyway. Not the same thing at all. The next time they played this game, if they ever did, they'd have to quantify the rules a bit better.
The 9th Hole
As they stood on the tee of the 9th hole, it began to drizzle.
Peter drove off quickly, and again hit it well. Sasha followed suit, and her ball was once again only a few yards away from Peter’s.
Peter swung hard…and the ball rose and fell after only 10 feet.
“What the hell was that?” he demanded of the gods of golf.
“Quiet, please,” said Sasha. “I need to be able to concentrate.”
Her ball went about 30 feet.
“What the hell was *that?” she demanded. She tested the rigidness of her golf club once more, but it refused to bend.
Peter’s next attempt was a bit more successful, and his Slazenger soared through the air and hit the green.
Sasha’s attempt was a bit more respectable as well, falling only just short.
The rain began to come down harder.
Peter putted toward the hole, but misjudged the ease with which the ball could roll over wet grass.
Sasha’s next attempt brought her up onto the green.
Peter attempted another putt, and his ball rolled toward the hole, rimmed it, and rolled a few feet away.
Sasha shook the water off her putter, then attempted her own shot. Her heart rose as it looked as if her ball was going to fall into the cup, but it also rimmed out.
“Bad luck, my dear,” said Peter. He knocked his ball into the hole.
“Winner, and still champion!” he cried, raising both hands in the air.
“Ye-es,” said Sasha. She wrung some water out of the bottom of her tube top.
They returned to the cart. Peter reached into the golf bag and pulled out a blanket, two champagne glasses, and a bottle of champagne.
“There’s a nice bunker over there,” said Peter. “Spread the blanket, have a glass, and then…”
A bolt of lightning shot through the black clouds…
A few seconds later, rumble thundered around them.
“Peter,” said Sasha, “Much as I’d love to make passionate love while the rain caresses our bodies…”
“Yes…?”
“And little as I know about golf, one thing I do know is that no one is supposed to be on a golf course when there’s lightning.”
“But having sex in the middle of a raging thunderstorm…it’ll be classic…”
“Well, let’s work up to that, shall we?” said Sasha. “Look…there’s an equipment shed over there. The perfect spot.”
Peter flinched as the rain came down like a solid sheet of water.
“Okay, you win,” he said. “Let’s get in that shed.”
They walked over to the shed, which was not locked, and entered. Sasha remained by the door while Peter spread out the blanket, rather wet as it was, and then concentrated on pouring champagne. When he turned around, he watched appreciatively as Sasha removed her tube top. Her breasts bobbed beautifully, glistening.
“You look beautiful, Sasha,” he said huskily.
He handed her the glass of champagne, intertwined his arm with hers, and they drank their champagne simultaneously.
Then Sasha set down her glass and began to unbutton Peter’s shirt. As he took off the unbuttoned shirt she then undid his belt and unzipped his slacks. He stepped out of them, and then he rolled up his clothes into a bundle and placed it on the blanket, laying down and resting his head upon it. Sasha straddled him and bent down to kiss him while her breasts brushed his chest.
They kissed long and deeply, while Peter cupped her breasts and rubbed them against his chest.
Sasha could feel him growing underneath her, and reached down and maneuvered around until his cock slid into her. Then, she clenched her thighs around his waist and began to rock her hips back and forth, meantime leaning down and kissing Peter’s neck, going down to his nipples and nibbling.
Peter rested his hands on her hips and lay with closed eyes, enjoying the feeling of her body on his, his cock being squeezed and massaged by her vagina, her lips nibbling and licking his face, his eyes, his nose, his lips, his neck.
Sasha enjoyed her own feeling of power, pleasuring herself at her own speed, enjoying the saltiness of his firm skin as she ran her tongue over every angle of his handsome face, rubbing her hands over his powerful musculature.
The rain pounded on the roof of the shed and thunder rumbled, a splendid soundtrack to their lovemaking.
Finally Sasha could feel the fluttering in her thighs that told her she was about to cum, and then a sudden flood of warmth. She clenched her legs even tighter, clenched her buttocks and rose up and down, up and down…
“Ah, god,” she said, as the pleasure hit her. She buried her fingers in Peter’s hair and buried her face in his neck as she felt the waves of pleasure ripple through her.
“Keep going,” gasped Peter.
Sasha resumed her attentions to him, and shortly afterward, Peter’s body was shuddering as well.
Afterwards, they lay there, relaxing, and kissing, as the rain continued to beat a counterpoint above their heads
Monday, August 9, 2010
Erotica By Bravo - Dighton & Forrest: A Game of Golf
Part 3 of 3
I. The 4th hole
“It’s so sexist of me to go first all the time,” Sasha said as they approached the 4th tee. “Why don’t you go first this time, Peter.”
“It’s not a question of sexism,” said Peter, loftily. “The person who is losing the contest should go first.”
Sasha waggled her driver at him. “Go first, Peter. I insist.”
Peter grinned and approached the tee. He swung his club back, but just as he started swinging forward, Sasha coughed loudly.
Peter mis-hit the ball and sent it skittering into the trees.
“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry,” said Sasha, contritely. She coughed again. “Something in my throat.”
“Not to worry, darling,” said Peter, grimly.
Sasha went to her own tee, set up her ball, and addressed it. Taking a deep breath, she swung with all her might. She smacked the ball solidly and it sailed through the air further than any of her previous attempts.”
“Yeah, baby!” cried Sasha.
“You’re getting better,” said Peter grimly.
Sasha found her ball, and stood there while Peter rooted around for his. Eventually he gave up and fetched another ball from the bucket. He dropped it just outside the line of woods, and made a note on his scorecard of the extra stroke.
Full of confidence, Sasha took her iron and swung with all her might. The ball ricocheted off the club at practically a 90 degree angle and disappeared into the trees.
“Argh!” cried Sasha, shaking her golf club at the woods in rage, as Peter burst out laughing.
Peter won the hole, and as they returned to the cart Sasha removed her yellow vest and stuffed it behind her seat. She undid a couple more buttons on her white shirt and breathed deeply.
II. The 5th Hole
“After you, Peter,” Sasha said.
Peter grinned. “You don’t think you’re going to catch me out again, do you?” he asked.
Sasha looked hurt. “There was something in my throat!”
Peter teed up his ball, assumed his stance, closed his eyes and attempted to center his concentration, then swung the club smoothly and smacked the ball with authority. It sailed gracefully through the air and bounded forward several more yards once it hit the ground.
Sasha grimaced. “Very good,” she said.
She addressed her own ball. Just as she started swinging her club forward, Peter yelled, “Fore!”
Sasha’s ball shot sideways and into the woods once more.
As Sasha walked past Peter towards the trees she said out of the corner of her mouth, “You’re going to pay for this.”
Peter grinned.
As they walked back to the golf cart at the conclusion of the hole, Sasha undid the buckle and slipped her belt out of its loops. She stuffed it behind her seat as Peter drove blithely to the next tee.
III. The Sixth Hole
“The wind is picking up,” Peter noted, as they stood at the sixth tee. “And look at those clouds over there. Very dark.”
Sasha nodded. “We’re going to have some rain pretty soon.”
“Might be all for the best,” said Peter. “More privacy for us if its pouring down.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sasha. “From what I’ve heard, neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail shall keep a golfer from his appointed round.”
“Well, we’d better not dally then. Four holes to go. I assume you want me to tee off first.”
Sasha grinned. “You assume correctly.”
Peter teed off, while Sasha watched in silence. “You are getting better,” she said grudgingly. “Every time you tee off the ball goes further.”
“Except those times when they go into the trees,” Peter said cheerfully. “But I think I’ve got the knack of it now.”
“Yeah. Let’s see what I can do.”
Sasha also teed off in Peter’s silence. He nodded his approbation. “Not bad. Just a few yards shorter than mine. And right on the fairway.”
“Yeah, unlike Phil Mickelson who apparently can’t hit a fairway to save his life.” (Sasha spoke with some bitterness. She and Peter had spent the last four days watching the Bridgestone Open in order to get some visual training for their little golf game, and to make it interesting they’d had a side bet. Sasha had bet that Mickelson would be able to place 4th or better, and wrest the title of #1 golfer from Tiger Woods. But Mickelson had ended up playing the final round as poorly as had Tiger Woods, and from his 6th place start he had plummeted all the way down to finish in 46th. 46th! As a result, she’d had to bear the entire cost of this round of golf herself, and would have to treat Peter to dinner later on that night, as well. Maddening.)
After Sasha reached the green, she approached the ball with her putter confidently. Three putts later, she kicked the ball in the hole with her foot.
“How much did you pay for these clubs, Peter?” she asked as they headed back toward the golf cart. She held the putter at both ends, and tested its rigidity briefly.It refused to bend.
Once at the cart, Sasha peeled off her white shirt and stuffed it behind her seat.
Peter’s eyes took in her long neck, and her well tanned shoulders appreciatively, then descended downward, to see her perfect breasts not swelling out of her bra but rather filling out a white tube top rather nicely.
“What the hell?” said Peter. “Tube top??”
Sasha shrugged her perfect shoulders, and grinned wickedly. “I thought it best to be prepared for the worst…. And hell…my golf game…who would’ve thought putting would be the hardest thing about this stupid game?”
As Peter drove toward the next hole, Sasha rested her left arm across the back of his seat, while she held on to the top of the cart with her right hand. This gave Peter an excellent view of her toned arms and décolletage, had he not been forced to concentrate on his driving.
He smiled to himself. Three more holes to go. And then...
I. The 4th hole
“It’s so sexist of me to go first all the time,” Sasha said as they approached the 4th tee. “Why don’t you go first this time, Peter.”
“It’s not a question of sexism,” said Peter, loftily. “The person who is losing the contest should go first.”
Sasha waggled her driver at him. “Go first, Peter. I insist.”
Peter grinned and approached the tee. He swung his club back, but just as he started swinging forward, Sasha coughed loudly.
Peter mis-hit the ball and sent it skittering into the trees.
“Oh, Peter, I’m so sorry,” said Sasha, contritely. She coughed again. “Something in my throat.”
“Not to worry, darling,” said Peter, grimly.
Sasha went to her own tee, set up her ball, and addressed it. Taking a deep breath, she swung with all her might. She smacked the ball solidly and it sailed through the air further than any of her previous attempts.”
“Yeah, baby!” cried Sasha.
“You’re getting better,” said Peter grimly.
Sasha found her ball, and stood there while Peter rooted around for his. Eventually he gave up and fetched another ball from the bucket. He dropped it just outside the line of woods, and made a note on his scorecard of the extra stroke.
Full of confidence, Sasha took her iron and swung with all her might. The ball ricocheted off the club at practically a 90 degree angle and disappeared into the trees.
“Argh!” cried Sasha, shaking her golf club at the woods in rage, as Peter burst out laughing.
Peter won the hole, and as they returned to the cart Sasha removed her yellow vest and stuffed it behind her seat. She undid a couple more buttons on her white shirt and breathed deeply.
II. The 5th Hole
“After you, Peter,” Sasha said.
Peter grinned. “You don’t think you’re going to catch me out again, do you?” he asked.
Sasha looked hurt. “There was something in my throat!”
Peter teed up his ball, assumed his stance, closed his eyes and attempted to center his concentration, then swung the club smoothly and smacked the ball with authority. It sailed gracefully through the air and bounded forward several more yards once it hit the ground.
Sasha grimaced. “Very good,” she said.
She addressed her own ball. Just as she started swinging her club forward, Peter yelled, “Fore!”
Sasha’s ball shot sideways and into the woods once more.
As Sasha walked past Peter towards the trees she said out of the corner of her mouth, “You’re going to pay for this.”
Peter grinned.
As they walked back to the golf cart at the conclusion of the hole, Sasha undid the buckle and slipped her belt out of its loops. She stuffed it behind her seat as Peter drove blithely to the next tee.
III. The Sixth Hole
“The wind is picking up,” Peter noted, as they stood at the sixth tee. “And look at those clouds over there. Very dark.”
Sasha nodded. “We’re going to have some rain pretty soon.”
“Might be all for the best,” said Peter. “More privacy for us if its pouring down.”
“I don’t think so,” said Sasha. “From what I’ve heard, neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail shall keep a golfer from his appointed round.”
“Well, we’d better not dally then. Four holes to go. I assume you want me to tee off first.”
Sasha grinned. “You assume correctly.”
Peter teed off, while Sasha watched in silence. “You are getting better,” she said grudgingly. “Every time you tee off the ball goes further.”
“Except those times when they go into the trees,” Peter said cheerfully. “But I think I’ve got the knack of it now.”
“Yeah. Let’s see what I can do.”
Sasha also teed off in Peter’s silence. He nodded his approbation. “Not bad. Just a few yards shorter than mine. And right on the fairway.”
“Yeah, unlike Phil Mickelson who apparently can’t hit a fairway to save his life.” (Sasha spoke with some bitterness. She and Peter had spent the last four days watching the Bridgestone Open in order to get some visual training for their little golf game, and to make it interesting they’d had a side bet. Sasha had bet that Mickelson would be able to place 4th or better, and wrest the title of #1 golfer from Tiger Woods. But Mickelson had ended up playing the final round as poorly as had Tiger Woods, and from his 6th place start he had plummeted all the way down to finish in 46th. 46th! As a result, she’d had to bear the entire cost of this round of golf herself, and would have to treat Peter to dinner later on that night, as well. Maddening.)
After Sasha reached the green, she approached the ball with her putter confidently. Three putts later, she kicked the ball in the hole with her foot.
“How much did you pay for these clubs, Peter?” she asked as they headed back toward the golf cart. She held the putter at both ends, and tested its rigidity briefly.It refused to bend.
Once at the cart, Sasha peeled off her white shirt and stuffed it behind her seat.
Peter’s eyes took in her long neck, and her well tanned shoulders appreciatively, then descended downward, to see her perfect breasts not swelling out of her bra but rather filling out a white tube top rather nicely.
“What the hell?” said Peter. “Tube top??”
Sasha shrugged her perfect shoulders, and grinned wickedly. “I thought it best to be prepared for the worst…. And hell…my golf game…who would’ve thought putting would be the hardest thing about this stupid game?”
As Peter drove toward the next hole, Sasha rested her left arm across the back of his seat, while she held on to the top of the cart with her right hand. This gave Peter an excellent view of her toned arms and décolletage, had he not been forced to concentrate on his driving.
He smiled to himself. Three more holes to go. And then...
Sunday, August 8, 2010
Erotica By Bravo - Dighton & Forrest: A Game of Golf pt 2
Part 2 of 4
I.
Once again, Peter gestured for Sasha to tee off first. Sasha took a deep breath, addressed the ball, then swung back and forward. She hit the ball cleanly and watched in great delight as the ball sailed forward in a straight line for several yards, just as she had intended.
“Match that, then,” she said, joining Peter back at the man’s tee.
Peter smirked and teed his own ball. He smacked it with all his might, and saw it sail not in a straight line, but rather off to the right and straight into a scattered copse of wood that ran down the fairway. “Damn,” said Peter.
Peter drove the cart forward a few yards, then Sasha got out and went to her ball, while Peter went foraging in search of his own.
Sasha peered further down the fairway to see the pin in the hole on the green. She then addressed her ball and hit it with all her might. To her great satisfaction, the ball went straight and true.
“How’s it going, Peter?” she called.
Peter returned to the electric cart, and pulled another ball out of the bucket. “I’ll be taking a drop,” he said. He returned to the woods, dropped the ball just outside it, and hit it straight and true down to the green. He hit it so well that his confidence, which had crashed after he’d hit his first ball into the woods, returned.
Indeed, two more hits and his ball went into the hole.
Meantime, Sasha had made the green, and made her first putt. It rolled past the hole and down several feet on the other side. She tried again, it rimmed the hole and drifted a few inches away. Finally she was able to tap it in, but nevertheless it took her one more stroke than it had Peter.
Grimly, Sasha untied her tie and stowed it into the cap behind her seat, as they proceeded on to hole #3.
II.
This time, Sasha hit her ball with full power, and watched with satisfaction as it soared halfway down the fairway. Now she was getting the hang of this. Now all she had to do was master the intricacies of putting, and she’d be set.
Then Peter his ball and it soared far past hers.
Sasha calculated as she went hunting for her ball. Peter was playing with a Penfold #1. She had went out secretly and purchased a can of Penfold #2s, and had those three balls in her pocket. It looked like she was going to have to take desperate measures if she were going to pull out a win here.
After finding her ball, Sasha glanced around. Peter had already found his. She’d have to bide her time…wait until the next time Peter hit his ball into the trees, then help him look for it.
Sasha finally reached the green, and took another three putts to get the ball in the hole. It took Peter three putts also, but he hadn’t needed an extra couple of swipes to get his ball on the green in the first place.
Sasha removed her jacket as they walked back to the golf cart. “I wish we’d played a couple of games of miniature golf before we’d gotten started on this,” she said, flexing her tanned biceps, revealed by the short-sleeve white shirt she was wearing. She undid the collar of her shirt another couple of buttons.
“Are you trying to distract me, my darling?” Peter asked.
“Of course.”
I.
Once again, Peter gestured for Sasha to tee off first. Sasha took a deep breath, addressed the ball, then swung back and forward. She hit the ball cleanly and watched in great delight as the ball sailed forward in a straight line for several yards, just as she had intended.
“Match that, then,” she said, joining Peter back at the man’s tee.
Peter smirked and teed his own ball. He smacked it with all his might, and saw it sail not in a straight line, but rather off to the right and straight into a scattered copse of wood that ran down the fairway. “Damn,” said Peter.
Peter drove the cart forward a few yards, then Sasha got out and went to her ball, while Peter went foraging in search of his own.
Sasha peered further down the fairway to see the pin in the hole on the green. She then addressed her ball and hit it with all her might. To her great satisfaction, the ball went straight and true.
“How’s it going, Peter?” she called.
Peter returned to the electric cart, and pulled another ball out of the bucket. “I’ll be taking a drop,” he said. He returned to the woods, dropped the ball just outside it, and hit it straight and true down to the green. He hit it so well that his confidence, which had crashed after he’d hit his first ball into the woods, returned.
Indeed, two more hits and his ball went into the hole.
Meantime, Sasha had made the green, and made her first putt. It rolled past the hole and down several feet on the other side. She tried again, it rimmed the hole and drifted a few inches away. Finally she was able to tap it in, but nevertheless it took her one more stroke than it had Peter.
Grimly, Sasha untied her tie and stowed it into the cap behind her seat, as they proceeded on to hole #3.
II.
This time, Sasha hit her ball with full power, and watched with satisfaction as it soared halfway down the fairway. Now she was getting the hang of this. Now all she had to do was master the intricacies of putting, and she’d be set.
Then Peter his ball and it soared far past hers.
Sasha calculated as she went hunting for her ball. Peter was playing with a Penfold #1. She had went out secretly and purchased a can of Penfold #2s, and had those three balls in her pocket. It looked like she was going to have to take desperate measures if she were going to pull out a win here.
After finding her ball, Sasha glanced around. Peter had already found his. She’d have to bide her time…wait until the next time Peter hit his ball into the trees, then help him look for it.
Sasha finally reached the green, and took another three putts to get the ball in the hole. It took Peter three putts also, but he hadn’t needed an extra couple of swipes to get his ball on the green in the first place.
Sasha removed her jacket as they walked back to the golf cart. “I wish we’d played a couple of games of miniature golf before we’d gotten started on this,” she said, flexing her tanned biceps, revealed by the short-sleeve white shirt she was wearing. She undid the collar of her shirt another couple of buttons.
“Are you trying to distract me, my darling?” Peter asked.
“Of course.”
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Erotica By Bravo - Dighton & Forrest: A Game of Golf
(Part 1 of 4)
Peter Dighton drove the electric golf court slowly along the path until he spotted the tee box of the first green. He pulled the cart up to the tee box, turned it off, and got out.
Peter wore a porkpie hat, a brown sweater over an open-necked blue shirt, brown slacks, brown socks, and brown shoes. He lifted down the golf bag in which resided six clubs.
His wife, Sasha Forrest, tugged her soft brown cap more securely over her eyes, and climbed out of her side of the cart. She also wore brown… a brown tweed jacket over a yellow vest, which was over a white shirt and tie. She wore plus fours – slacks that ended just below her knees, where they were tucked into long grey socks which revealed her shapely calves. Her shoes were the same color as her plus fours, jacket and cap.
All that was missing was a Korean caddy with a rather deadly metallic fedora, but considering what was going to happen at the end of the game - a 9 - hole round of golf - they had decided to forego that piece of verisimilitude.
Peter tugged a sheaf of papers out of his pocket.
“Okay, “ he said. “We’ve each got three clubs. We’ve got a driver, which we use to hit the ball off the tee here. We’ve got an iron, which we use to hit the ball from wherever it lands, as many times as it takes to reach the green, where the hole is lo.cated And we’ve got the putter, which we use on the green, to putt the ball into the hole.”
Sasha nodded. “Sounds easy enough.”
Peter nodded. “I thought so. For our incredible skills, three clubs a piece are enough. Especially when I’m the one carrying the golf bag.”
“Pshaw,” said Sasha. “You should be carrying the golf bag, but since the rule is we’ve got to use this electric cart instead of walking around the course, you’re not carryin’ nuthin, are ya.”
“Well, since you put it like that…”
Peter walked around to the back of the golf cart where two buckets resided. They were each filled with golf balls. Peter’s were Penfolds, Sasha’s were Slazengers.
“Ladies first,” said Peter, handing Sasha a Slazenger and a tee.
There were two tee areas, one for men, where Peter remained, and one a few yards further down the fairway, from which women teed off. Sasha normally had no truck with such special accommodations for women, but considering this was her very first golf game ever, and considering that she had carte blanche to cheat during this particular game…
She teed up the ball, braced her feet on either side of it, waggled her golf club to get a good feel of it, then swung it back and forward with all her might.
She missed the ball completely.
“That was just a practice shot,” she called back to Peter.
“Of course, my darling.”
Sasha waggled her golf club again, then took a few practice swings. Then, she addressed the tee-ed up ball once more, and swung with all her might.
She missed again.
“Jee-zus.” She said softly.
“That was another practice shot,” she called out, “and I don’t want to hear any laughing from you!”
Peter merely smiled.
Okay, Sasha thought to herself. You’re not going to hit it if you’re trying to crush it….so just go at the damn thing softly…three quarter speed….
She swung her club back again, forward, and there was a satisfactory smack as golf head met golf ball. The ball rose only a few feet into the air, but it traveled several yards in the air and rolled several more. Sasha kept her eye on it to make sure she could find it again, then walked back to where Peter waited.
“Okay, hotshot,” she said, “Do your worst.”
Peter teed up his own ball, addressed it, did an Ed Norton act of addressing the ball, then backing off to stretch his shoulders, then addressing the ball again, while Sasha waited, striving to keep a grim expression on her face.
Finally Peter let fly. He hit the ball on his first try, a clean smack. It rose in the air and sailed down the fairway, passing Sasha’s ball by a few yards.
Peter drove the electric cart closer to their balls, then waited while Sasha took her iron and addressed her ball. Again she hit it only three quarters speed, again she smacked it cleanly and sent it skittering toward the green.
Peter took his own iron, and hit his ball as cleanly.
Another shot from each. Peter was on the green, a few yards from the hole, while Sasha was in the rough, several yards away. She hit her ball onto the green. Peter gestured toward the hole, and Sasha removed the pin from it. Peter took his putter, examined the lie carefully, and then putted. To his utter amazement the ball went into the cup. He did a fist pump.
They returned to the cart. Grim faced, Sasha removed her cap and stuffed it behind her seat. Then, Peter drove them to the next hole.
Continued tomorrow
Peter Dighton drove the electric golf court slowly along the path until he spotted the tee box of the first green. He pulled the cart up to the tee box, turned it off, and got out.
Peter wore a porkpie hat, a brown sweater over an open-necked blue shirt, brown slacks, brown socks, and brown shoes. He lifted down the golf bag in which resided six clubs.
His wife, Sasha Forrest, tugged her soft brown cap more securely over her eyes, and climbed out of her side of the cart. She also wore brown… a brown tweed jacket over a yellow vest, which was over a white shirt and tie. She wore plus fours – slacks that ended just below her knees, where they were tucked into long grey socks which revealed her shapely calves. Her shoes were the same color as her plus fours, jacket and cap.
All that was missing was a Korean caddy with a rather deadly metallic fedora, but considering what was going to happen at the end of the game - a 9 - hole round of golf - they had decided to forego that piece of verisimilitude.
Peter tugged a sheaf of papers out of his pocket.
“Okay, “ he said. “We’ve each got three clubs. We’ve got a driver, which we use to hit the ball off the tee here. We’ve got an iron, which we use to hit the ball from wherever it lands, as many times as it takes to reach the green, where the hole is lo.cated And we’ve got the putter, which we use on the green, to putt the ball into the hole.”
Sasha nodded. “Sounds easy enough.”
Peter nodded. “I thought so. For our incredible skills, three clubs a piece are enough. Especially when I’m the one carrying the golf bag.”
“Pshaw,” said Sasha. “You should be carrying the golf bag, but since the rule is we’ve got to use this electric cart instead of walking around the course, you’re not carryin’ nuthin, are ya.”
“Well, since you put it like that…”
Peter walked around to the back of the golf cart where two buckets resided. They were each filled with golf balls. Peter’s were Penfolds, Sasha’s were Slazengers.
“Ladies first,” said Peter, handing Sasha a Slazenger and a tee.
There were two tee areas, one for men, where Peter remained, and one a few yards further down the fairway, from which women teed off. Sasha normally had no truck with such special accommodations for women, but considering this was her very first golf game ever, and considering that she had carte blanche to cheat during this particular game…
She teed up the ball, braced her feet on either side of it, waggled her golf club to get a good feel of it, then swung it back and forward with all her might.
She missed the ball completely.
“That was just a practice shot,” she called back to Peter.
“Of course, my darling.”
Sasha waggled her golf club again, then took a few practice swings. Then, she addressed the tee-ed up ball once more, and swung with all her might.
She missed again.
“Jee-zus.” She said softly.
“That was another practice shot,” she called out, “and I don’t want to hear any laughing from you!”
Peter merely smiled.
Okay, Sasha thought to herself. You’re not going to hit it if you’re trying to crush it….so just go at the damn thing softly…three quarter speed….
She swung her club back again, forward, and there was a satisfactory smack as golf head met golf ball. The ball rose only a few feet into the air, but it traveled several yards in the air and rolled several more. Sasha kept her eye on it to make sure she could find it again, then walked back to where Peter waited.
“Okay, hotshot,” she said, “Do your worst.”
Peter teed up his own ball, addressed it, did an Ed Norton act of addressing the ball, then backing off to stretch his shoulders, then addressing the ball again, while Sasha waited, striving to keep a grim expression on her face.
Finally Peter let fly. He hit the ball on his first try, a clean smack. It rose in the air and sailed down the fairway, passing Sasha’s ball by a few yards.
Peter drove the electric cart closer to their balls, then waited while Sasha took her iron and addressed her ball. Again she hit it only three quarters speed, again she smacked it cleanly and sent it skittering toward the green.
Peter took his own iron, and hit his ball as cleanly.
Another shot from each. Peter was on the green, a few yards from the hole, while Sasha was in the rough, several yards away. She hit her ball onto the green. Peter gestured toward the hole, and Sasha removed the pin from it. Peter took his putter, examined the lie carefully, and then putted. To his utter amazement the ball went into the cup. He did a fist pump.
They returned to the cart. Grim faced, Sasha removed her cap and stuffed it behind her seat. Then, Peter drove them to the next hole.
Continued tomorrow
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