At the Summit Ch. 01

His research was complete, as was her preparation. She felt his fingertip touch this new place within and then before she could think, or ask, or tell, she was beyond control!

His finger inside seemed to meet his touch outside and Michelle felt as if her clit was being caressed from within. Her juices flowed over his fingers and hand as he stimulated her, second after second, taking her closer and closer until it began - "...au moment de l'orgasme!" It was not a complete sentence, but Dean was in no mood to ask her to repeat and translate.

It spread up to her clit and throughout the tunnel of her vagina and she could contain it no longer as she squirmed against him, flexed herself around his finger, and swallowed his mouth in hers, feeling herself propelled by his touches. Michelle was riding the crest, riding the wave of a most intense orgasm as he continued his marvelous task.

He knew not to stop, smiled at her mix of anguished requests to stop for "un' moment" that mixed with her hot-breathed assertion that she couldn't stop! She came and came on his wonderful finger, and savored the counter-eddys of sensation from his lips over her straining nipples. Moaning loudly and long, drowning in the bliss he was giving her!

"Oh!"

Still he continued his movements on her, within her, and another wave was starting, this one yet more intense! The room faded further away in the pink cloud as she left the world behind and became only aware of the sensations in the center of her "territoires intimes..." rushing out to every nerve in her body. Michelle was on sensory overload and this time she could only cry out to him in French-- words that he did not know, but felt.

Softly now, he eased his finger away and held her as he had at first. Her ears were still full of the roar of her rushing blood and she felt ecstatically spent.

"Thank you, my lover," she whispered, her eyes slowly opening. She saw his passion-flushed face.

"Thank YOU!" he whispered back to her as he withdrew his hand from her still partly-zipped jeans and moved back to look at her. They kissed deeply. She felt his hardness pressing against her thigh. As intense as her orgasms were, she had to admit that now she craved his cock.

Suddenly, before they knew it, they were caught up in a mad storm of zippers, buttons and elastic. They laughed at their sudden impetuousness. And then they stopped... he yet in his bulging white cotton and she sleek in the rose satin panties that matched the forgotten bra.

"Our last innocent kiss!" she exclaimed, as they embraced. The heat of her vagina boiled through the inadequate cloth and surrounded him with an urgent, loving sensation.

"Innocent?!!" They chortled together.

"Well, I think it is a custom in part of France, before the virgin leaps under the covers," Michelle mused.

"And has all this happened to French virgins before that last 'innocent' second?"

"It depends on how one defines 'innocence'" she said in deadpan with an arch-eyebrowed look.

Sharing the same thought, they looked deeply at each other for a moment; then Michelle said the words "you need to come inside tonight" in both languages.

Dreamily still, she stretched out on the bed. Dean stood beside her for a moment, letting his eyes trace every curve, drinking in this perfect moment. Then he stretched his waistband wide from his slim stomach, and slipped his last covering to the floor.

Michelle grinned a bit, and Dean laughed joyfully, as his penis struggled to orient itself after its overlong captivity. She grew silent again as she watched it curve upward to meet their mutual needs.

He knelt on the bed beside her, and placed his hands at the satin waistband. She stretched out, raising her hips slightly to allow him to ease her panties over her hips, and then she relaxed catlike again, draped over the pillows and the bed. Her broad Norman hips waited to receive his power. She would translate his message into her own excitement.

1997 - Late at Night

Dean roused himself from his late-night reverie, and stumbled upstairs to bed. In the morning, there would be details to attend to and a flight to catch.

1997 - Too Early in the Morning

The alarm blasted him out of a deep sleep. He rolled over to hit the button, and felt himself to be agreeably hard. All those memories had carried on through the night. Not that he did not wake up this way on many mornings, given the devolution of his marriage. Still, there was something different this morning-- a feeling of anticipation. His wife remained hard asleep.

Walking into the office for the first time in months, there was also a feeling of anticipation. He had enjoyed his diversion into the academic world, but this was his first love. There were new people here and there, but familiar faces also looked up from their desks and nodded greetings as he passed. There were empty desks, too, reminding of colleagues retired and not replaced.

He came to a waiting area at the end of the office, and Jill, the secretary who guarded the director's office was waiting there for him. She was 58 or 59 years old, but hadn't worked for the government long enough for the type of early retirement which he had taken. Her early career as one of the first Playboy Playmates did not count toward retirement.

She was grinning.

"I've got your tickets and the paperwork," she chuckled. "But is this trip business or pleasure?" Apparently the "need to know" policy extended to directors' secretaries.

"Must I tell? Do you answer every question?" He emphasized the last sentence. They both laughed.

"Loose lips sink ships, Ms. Hardaway!" he intoned in mock seriousness.

"And they can do a hell of a lot more than that!" Now they really were laughing. "Grab a chair and he'll be with you in a moment."

When she first started in the office, no one had realized about her background. Somehow, it leaked out, and once it was a topic of discussion, Jill had become somewhat proud of her pioneering role. She had discovered that people wanted to know about the celebrities whom she had met, the places she had traveled to, and so forth. In an office where most topics of conversation would lead to security dead-ends, it was fun to hear her tales. Still, as Dean's question had emphasized, she was discrete about certain topics.

This discretion had recently netted her a retired admiral; his photo was displayed in a small gold frame on her desk. They were quietly seeing each other. Dean found himself looking at it and wondering if the admiral had a current photo of Jill, or if he also had obtained a copy of her fold-out from years ago.

Jill had been a zaftig confection, the classic blonde pin-up of her day, the girl next door pouring milk into the cat's bowl while wearing red bikini panties and a big smile. Out at sea, a young sailor would have clutched at that image. Dean smiled a bit as he realized that she was wearing more in that centerfold shot than some high-fashion models wear in women's magazines today.

As Dean's mind sorted out his thoughts about the message from Michelle, he realized that there was a message in this room for him. Jill and the Admiral were a decade older than he and Michelle were, and they were a handsome couple, just as intrigued about each other as any new couple might be.

When Dean and Michelle had been together in Germany, a warm summer afternoon had come where they had imagined themselves to be 50, and they had somehow found each other and were telling each other about their lives. Being 50 had seemed terribly far off. Dean had poured more of the strawberry wine, and Michelle had sliced up more of the cheese and apples, and they had talked and talked.

"Like a French movie," Dean had quipped to himself later on. They had not had sex that afternoon, though they had discovered that lightly running his nails along the cut-out edge of her sleeveless top, along her warm, bare skin made her purr kitten-like. Somehow, this quiet afternoon spent sharing thoughts about their future loves, families, jobs, and even future losses was as intimate as any that they had shared in bed. In later years he sometimes thought of it as the climax of their special relationship. Now that imaginary day was going to become real. And Jill and the Admiral were a reminder to him that there was much more ahead in life.

The inner sanctum's door opened.

"Come in, Dean!" Jill signaled a thumbs-up. The director beckoned him. The briefing was not long, as they had worked together on many previous projects. The director did NOT ask him if the trip was going to be business or pleasure. As had happened so many years ago, he looked at the pleasure as a nice cover for business.

The matter was simple from his standpoint. Michelle and other women of her agency were resisting pressure to play favorites with le Front National. For the umpteenth time in history, certain French civil servants in the defence establishment found themselves to be comfortable with a shift toward the right. They could feed information to the stern-visaged men who ran the Front, curry favor with them, hope to manipulate them.

The Lepenistes in the department, as the Front faction was called, wanted nothing to be known about their leanings. On the other hand, some of their colleagues, intelligent women and men who were used to thinking on their own and dealing with big risks, had heard the FN's words, had understood that the "role hypertraditionnel" awaiting them was a retrograde movement. Le Pen himself had sharply warned that the state must no longer be neutral in private lives. Women were to bear children, and raise them in the home.

Michelle would set up contacts between their agencies which would bypass Lepenistes who had taken control of the information flow between the American and French counterparts. This would be done under cover of a sentimental rendezvous, appearing to take advantage of Michelle's assignment to cover a peripheral security matter on the First Ladies' side of the Summit conference in Denver.

Dean thought to himself about this. Now he understood why everyone seemed to know about the rendezvous. It was being leaked in order to build up the cover story about meeting his old flame.

"Is this something from the Internet conspiracy theorists?" he finally burst out.

The Director leaned back in his chair and looked at him blandly.

"Why don't you ask your friend, Michelle?"

"I will." Dean tried to sound assertive, but not confrontative. It came out poorly.

"I'll give it my best." That cliche from the "Iron Chef" sounded better.

The director rose and shook hands with him.

"It will be a difficult assignment, and the Lepenistes play hardball."

The director paused, and then winked. "I envy you." He did not smirk, but said it honestly. Perhaps he had someone in his past who he would like to meet again. Or perhaps it was physical danger that he envied. In Washington, DC, Dean mused, the dangers were meaningless traffic deaths and armed robberies. Taking risks to reach an executive office must have been a comedown for a man who had reputedly done so much in the recent Cold War.

Dean half-waved good-bye, and strode out of the room. Despite the question marks, it felt good to be back in business again. His mind told him it would be nice to get together with Michelle after all the years that had passed. Jill's knowing smile as he passed her reminded him that it might be more than nice.

To be continued...