The Roman Gambit Pt. 03

She raised her hips to help him do that. Then he put himself against her entrance. He wanted the choice to be hers. But his vote was for a lifelong joining. She gasped and pushed back, shoving him completely inside her in one white hot, perfectly lubricated thrust. She gave a muffled groan and held him there. She was virgin-tight, almost as if she had never had a man in her life. But nobody except a master of tantric sex would be able to massage his engorged cock the way her passage was.

The nipping and clamping and all-around milking of her silky channel was going to drive him to an orgasm without his ever having to move. It was the most thrilling sexual experience of his life. More importantly, the joining they were having was like she was filling in all of the empty and desolate places in his soul. Ivan had always suspected that the right woman would have a healing quality for him; that it would be an antidote to the bad things he had done in his life, It would almost be as if joining with the right person would give him absolution.

He had felt some sense of that before. It was the reason why he had behaved in such an unguarded and uncharacteristic manner. But that was nothing like what he felt joined with this incredible young woman. It was as if she was taking all of his pent-up guilt into herself and leaving him a cleansed man. Then her hips moved once, out and back, and her insides became a cauldron of heat and frantic movement.

Her leg shaking, thrashing and the sheer animal stimulation brought him to an orgasm that he didn't think was possible. He pulled her hips to him with all of his strength buried to the hilt. Then he pulled her further in and she took every bit of him. He continued to shoot, thinking to himself, "This isn't even physically possible is it?" She was shaking and making noises that he had never heard a woman make; and he kept shooting.

She finally stopped convulsing, unceremoniously pulled herself off him, and shot to her feet. Then, without a word she ran out of the tent and into the rain, grabbing a towel as she went. He was still rock hard. He couldn't fathom how that could be. He was tucking things back in as she came back into the tent.

She began to apologize, Ivan thought to himself, "It's a good thing that women are THAT insecure or they would never need men at all." Her little friend, who must have been awake during the last part of the cataclysmic events, said something about knowing EXACTLY what had gotten into her. She told him how embarrassed she was. That was laughable. She had just given him the fuck of his life and she was begging forgiveness? Unbelievable! Then, like most women she wanted to "talk about it." He told her they would do that in good time. But it was now time to get some rest.

Her little friend then suggested that SHE could rest better if Ivan gave her the same fucking. Ivan's mind told him that she was joking. But it still bothered him. He knew that Hilley Larson would be the only woman he would EVER want to fuck and that was disturbing. Was he falling in love so quickly? Impossible! Hilley said with mortification in every syllable, "I don't even know your name." He said, "It really IS John Smith." The sound of that new name felt good, because as far as he was concerned his life had begun again thanks to this woman.

*****

Mel was having spectacular dreams about sex with Kamal, her Istanbul crime lord, when she began to awake to the REAL sounds of sex. That was disorienting because she didn't remember any men in the tent when she drifted off. But if there WERE any, she was hoping that she was next. Then she came fully awake looking at Hilley. Hilley had her bottoms down around her thighs, her pussy on full display with one leg thrown partially back over some mysterious guy. The guy had ahold of her hips and was pulling her onto what was obviously his cock buried to the hilt from behind.

Hilley's face was no more than two feet away and it was contorted in a grimace of complete sexual abandon. She was breathing deeply and heavily. But she wasn't moving. Instead she was tensed into some kind of spasm. Her brows were knitted, and her mouth was shaped into the widest "O." The "O" looked like it was about to stand for "orgasm." Then her hips moved in and out. Her eyes flew open. Then they rolled so far back into her head that the irises disappeared.

Hilley convulsed and began making odd orgiastic noises, almost like she was trying to hold back the full-throated cries she wanted to make. Mel was hit by a sense of tenderness for her friend and also a wave of lust. Without thinking she reached out to take Hilley's hand, which was clutching the edge of the sleeping bag in a death grip. Hilley shifted her grasp from the bag to Mel's hand and the violence of Hilley's sexual release was transmitted through it.

The sheer passion, the smells and the sounds of sex, were causing Mel to go up the arousal ladder to a point where she absolutely had to come. So, she held Hilley's frantically jerking hand, as she transferred her free hand down past the waistline of her body suit and into her boiling hot slit. Hilley continued to writhe and gasp, as Mel worked herself to a very satisfying orgasm. Mel began to buck making strangled cries, while still holding onto Hilley's hand. Hilley continued to crush hers in the throes of extreme passion. Mel wasn't afraid that the other two would notice. They were far too lost in their own business.

So, for a couple of minutes they all had the most intense mutual orgasms in the history of sex. Then Hilley gasped, released Mel's hand, pulled the man out of her, moaned loudly, and jumped to her feet. Hilley grabbing a spare towel and her spectacular, round, bare ass shone in the glow of the sticks as she exited the tent into the rain. Mel turned with shock and curiosity to see who Hilley's mystery lover was. It was the man from the train. Mel thought wonderingly, "How in the world could Hilley materialize this gorgeous person here on a remote mountain?" Mel's next thought was, "My goodness he has a delicious looking cock!" Her last thought, before Hilly re-entered was, "I wonder if he would like me to suck it?"

Hilly came back with her body suit properly rearranged. She looked overwhelmed by shame. She started by abjectly apologizing to the man. She said that she didn't know what had gotten into her. Mel had to impishly point out that SHE knew what had gotten INTO Hilley. Mel was looking intently at his beautiful instrument as she said it.

The man told Hilly to not be such a silly girl. He said that she had given him the fucking of his life and that she had no need to apologize for that. He told her that they needed to get some rest and they could talk about what had happened as soon as they had some time to do it, not in the middle of the night. Mel suggested that she would sleep a lot better if the mystery man did the same thing for her. She was kidding of course, unless he WAS willing. Then the next thing Mel knew it was morning in the Ore mountains.

*****

The sun wasn't fully up but it was light enough to see the terrain in the grey dawn. I had gotten a little sleep after the cataclysmic middle of the night sex. In fact, if we were not camped on a German mountain in the soaking rain with the Bratva closing in on us I would have wanted to linger in bed with John and explore what last night meant. I knew that something significant had happened. But it was something that I had to put on the shelf and ignore until we got out of our current situation. My rational brain told me that the present was not a good time for lingering thoughts of love.

If we wanted to motivate the authorities, we had to get into the mine, get to the treasure and get the proof. I wasn't even sure who those authorities might be. But that was not our goal. Our mission was to provide absolute, irrefutable evidence that their involvement was required. I looked at John. He was sitting cross legged on the ground eating one of the MREs and chatting with Mel like he was on holiday on the Brighton Pier. I wondered how familiar he was with this type of action. This would be my first real foray into danger, and I was nervous. He seemed totally relaxed and even energized, like this was a game of golf and he was looking forward to the challenge of a new course.

I can recognize another intelligent person and it was obvious that his level of intelligence was close to mine. But his type of intelligence was in the realm of pure practicality, not theory. I was also a little uneasy about his announcement that his name was John Smith - NOW. I wondered what that meant. He had a decidedly Oxbridge University accent and so I assumed he was English upper middle class, perhaps academic. But there were things about him that didn't add up, like the odd military tattoos and his ability to speak and read Russian like a native.

Mel knew that he was mine. But it still didn't prevent her from flirting with him. I smiled at how female my little friend is, but I was certain beyond a shadow of a doubt that John Smith was my lover. There was something in the intimate way he looked at me and touched me and the playful companionship in his voice. There was also intense passion and longing in his glance when he thought I wasn't paying attention and the way he cradled me in his arms when we awoke.

We dressed carefully for the coming action. I was wearing a full set of black ballistic nylon Vertex tactical pants and Special Operations turtleneck top with a black tactical vest and harness to hold the goodies that I was bringing with me. I had a Taser strapped to one side of my belt and several rounds of pepper spray on the other side. To top it off I had a Sig P238 Nitron in a concealed carry holster on the back of the belt above my butt.

The Nitron is only five inches long but it is so accurate I can drive a nail with it, and Sigs have legendary durability. I had a dozen six round clips in the front pockets of my tac-pants. To top off my ensemble I was wearing my dad's old "101st Screaming Eagles" hat and women's special operations black-boots, which would practically let me climb walls. I had the bottoms of my tac-pants bloused into the boots the way special operators do theirs.

Mel was similarly dressed except she had no weapons. Instead she was lugging an LED military spotlight powered by a big nicad battery clipped to her belt. She was also carrying my computer equipment in a backpack. Mel is a tough little street fighter, with the killer instincts of a fighting mongoose. In fact, her eyes take on intent stare of that fierce creature when she is angry. But she is not nearly as big, strong or athletic as I am. So, she was assigned the job of "beast of burden" for our adventure.

I was thinking that I might have all the advantages and be seven inches taller, but Mel's life experiences make her a ferocious adversary. I knew that if we got into trouble, she would shed her load and produce the Asp Talon baton that she had clipped to her belt. She's a Jedi master of that weapon, so much so that she carries one everywhere. The Asp is part fighting baton and part steel whip and little Mel uses it to bring big dangerous men to their knees.

John was wearing the same clothes that he had worn trekking over miles of mountain wilderness last night. He had on a waterproof coat with the hood up and a black military hat bearing a black shield with a green letter "A" and Cyrillic writing above it. I was wildly curious, but I kept my voice conversational. I said, "What does the insignia stand for." He said amiably, "Spetsnaz Group Alpha - Counterterrorism." I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about except the counterterrorism part.

He had a pistol in a quick-draw shoulder holster under his arm. It looked lethal but I didn't recognize it. I said, "Okay, I'll bite. What kind of pistol is that?" He said genially, as if he was discussing the weather, it's a Yarygin MP-43 Grach. I have used one of those for a very long time" I said, "Where did you get it?" He said, "It's only issued to the Russian Special Operations Groups, the 9-millimeter Parabellum packs a punch and it takes a 17-round magazine. I have five of them in my coat pocket."

I said, "Spetsnaz hat and pistol, where did you get all of that Russian gear?"

He said quite equitably, "I brought it with me when I left the Army." I was mystified. I thought he was an English academic. I said, "What Army?" He said, "The Russian Army" as if everybody used to be part of the Red Army. I was doubly mystified. I intended to beat the whole story out of him as soon as we got someplace quiet, and we had a comfy bed to stretch out in.

We folded up our campsite, loaded the Defender and drove past the mine to a wilderness area perhaps a quarter mile further on. We parked it there. Then we walked back through the woods until we were within a couple of hundred yards of the old mine entrance. The entrance itself is part of a complex aimed at tourism. We were going to have to cross a parking lot in the open to get to it. But it was still just sun-up and because we were dressed in dark gear, we were essentially invisible in the foggy rainy day. The gate to the entrance must have been built when Kaiser Wilhelm was a boy. It was easy to pick.

We moved into the ancient passageway in the rock. The mine was nothing like the ones that you see in Westerns. It was ancient stone carved directly out of the mountain and the long passage was narrow and triangular rather than the square timbered passages you think of from the movies. We proceeded easily down the passageway, Mel lighting the way until we got into the area where they take the tourists. It was reasonably roomy and there were displays of mining equipment lying around it. We walked past that and into the gallery that led to the former working part of the mine.

I knew from the transcripts that the treasure was in the lowest level of the mine. I was lucky that that conversation had been transcribed into French in order to accommodate the entire Bratva network. Some of the older Czech members still resented the Russians, so the universal language was French. The speaker had traveled 800 feet down a ladder to get to where the treasure was stashed. I was hoping that the mechanical transporter, which the speaker had referred to in the recording, was still working since I didn't fancy an 800-foot climb.

We didn't need to follow a map. The only passageway led to a much larger area where the workers must have assembled for the day. There was indeed a hole where the ladder must have been. But there was also a simple, mid-20th Century platform that people could stand on with a control unit welded to it. I breathed a little sigh of relief. I had to admit that I was nervous. Frankly, I had never done anything as illegal as trespassing in a closed tourist facility. Mel looked almost terrified. But my intrepid little friend was soldiering along holding her light steady, like the brave and loyal little soul that she is.

John looked relaxed, almost jaunty, like he was taking a guided tour of the mine. He had OBVIOUSLY done this kind of thing before. The platform elevator was activated by a single on/off switch which I threw. The mechanism sprang to life. I said a little prayer to good German engineering. I pushed the only other thing that was present in front of me, which was a long lever with a classic dead-man's handle on it, and the entire platform began to sink. I was concerned about the noise that we were making but it was still 6:00 in the morning and the mine didn't open until 10:00.

We passed levels and levels of ancient galleries. Each looked a little more modern as we sank to the level where modern mining techniques must have been required. The initial layers were carved out of rock. But by the time we got to the final level the surrounding walls were carefully reinforced and the walls themselves were wider and more defined. Mel led the way with her light, which illuminated the entire tunnel in an almost whitish glare. After about 50 yards it was obvious that even newer techniques had been used because the tunnel was formed out of half circles of corrugated metal. This must have been the place where the old man had blown the walls back in 1945.

We got to a substantial wooden obstruction with a solid metal door in it. It did not take a genius to figure out that we had gotten to our goal. I was trying to figure out a way to get past when John stepped walked up to it. There was a handle in it. He tried it and nothing happened. I was thinking, "Who would lock a door 800 feet down in a mine in the middle of nowhere?" But it was obvious that the treasure inside justified every precaution. John reached into one of the copious pockets in his coat and brought out a little box. It had a number of thin metal instruments in it. He selected two, put them in the door and worked them around for a second. The door gave a loud "Click." John turned the handle.

I was thinking to himself, "What kind of English academic carries a large selection of lock picks in his POCKETS??!!" I was also thinking, either Mel or I could have done that quicker than he did, especially Mel who has the finely-honed burglary skills of a classic Dickens thief. In fact, Mel was so practiced at lock picking that she sometimes just picks her own locks instead of using a key. John pushed the door open with an, "after you Mademoiselle," gesture.

Mel and I stepped into the room. It was just as big as the old man in the recording had described. A square room; 60 by 60 feet of Nazi concrete. It had a ceiling that Mel's light illuminated 40 feet over our head. John tried the lights and they all worked. This place had obviously been refurbished very recently. We all stood there gaping at the treasure inside. There was a huge collection of paintings and other kinds of art in racks two deep along one wall. There appeared to be panels made out of solid amber. John let out a strangled cry and said with reverence, "It's the Amber Room!! We've found the Amber Room."

I was to learn later that this was practically a sacred object to the Russians, especially a Russian who had been born in St. Petersburg. I looked in the middle of the floor and there were fifteen substantial chests, each perhaps four feet high and four by eight feet in dimension. The letters SPQR were still clearly visible. We opened each chest and gold, silver, coins and precious stones filled each entirely. The worth of that treasure was incalculable.

The emotion that sight produced was so overwhelming that I actually had to steady myself by grabbing John's arm. Mel just sank down on the floor, put her head in her hands and wept. John was none too steady himself as we all just stood there and gazed. The overhead lights made the treasure chests literally glow. We stayed in that state for a minute or two. But we all knew that we had a job to do. So, I set about documenting the whole thing. I took the Go-Pro Hero7 that I had mounted to the front of my ballistic vest. It would create a perfect hi-def video and voice record for the Organization to send to UNESCO.

I made a carefully narrated recording of each chest, inventorying the larger items as I talked. I was going to blast that back to Sir Alex as soon as I got above ground. I walked around narrating a general commentary on the paintings. I recognized Monet's, Renoirs and what appeared to be a Van Gough just on the top layers. I didn't know what to do with the amber slabs stacked against the wall on the other side of the room.

That was when John took over. He said, "This is the Amber Room. It is a chamber of amber panels with gold leaf decoration worked into them. Due to its extraordinary beauty it was sometimes referred to as the "Eighth Wonder of the World." Friedrich-Wilhelm gave it to Peter the Great in the 18th Century. When it was installed in the Catherine Palace in St. Petersburg it covered more than 180 feet of wall space and contained over six tons of amber."