Smiling, the sub-twenty girl slipped past him with a delightful motion of slim hips. She had a plastic bag into which she dropped the marble ashtray, thus making sure she did not lose any of the precious cigar ash.
"Off to the Code Room," she said with a pretty smile.
"Ah. And then?" She might or might not have noticed the bump he was raising for her alone. At any rate, she touched her hair with a bit of unease and murmured, "Why, off to my ballet class near Grosvenor House."
"Why, that's quite close to the Wanderlust London office."
"Oh, is it really?"
But she was too young to carry it off, quite. She had known. Oh, she had known!
"Yes indeed. And I must report there in half an hour."
The ashtray in its strong plastic bag, now tightly sealed, made a telltale tremor where it hung from her hand at her side. Her dainty young lips had parted slightly.
Hank Hastings murmured, "I was about to take a cab. May I give you a lift, as we say in Chicago?"
She laughed. "Oh, we speak pure USA around here! Why, yes, thank you, Captain Hastings. Just let me pop back to the Code Room. Ad a mo!"
They laughed together. She's mine, Hank Hastings told himself. But, be careful. Trouble can come with trickery in high places.
Once upon a time, another American flyer had fallen in love with an Ambassador's daughter.
But Lindbergh had married the girl.
Marriage was the last thing that Hank Hastings wanted.
Playing with one hot twat after another was so much more fun.
On closer inspection, as she rode with him in one of those high ceiling London cabs, the Ambassador's daughter seemed about seventeen.
She seemed about the age of a USA high-school junior.
It occurred to Hank Hastings, with an odd pang, that Helen Troy had been a high-school junior when they had first met.
And then… ice cream sodas with a crowd of other kids looking on! And then, suddenly, the dark cloud of her story. The chill of the thing. Raped by an uncle. But at least it had happened in today's world, not yesterday's. Women didn't get "ruined" by premarital sex these days, any more than men did.
They could, however, get turned off men and turned onto women.
It hadn't felt that way when he had laid, waylaid and relaid delightful young Helen Troy in that hotel bed in Milwaukee.
But there he went, his mind on Helen again, and his prick rising as though hunting for Helen's cunt and not the young cunt of the girl who ended in a bed in a London hotel, beside him.
It had happened so quickly.
He supposed he had come into Leona's life at precisely the right time. Just when all the good manners and well-guarded entertainments that come the way of an Ambassador's daughter had acted up, in her teenage mind, to nothing much.
He supposed that there comes a time in every girl's life when she wants to be had. Lucky the man who happens to be in her company right then.
They had found a mildly decayed old hotel near St James Park. Through a corner of the window they read the time on Big Ben, down toward the river.
They had doubtful plumbing but a delightful big comfortable bed. Hank had hardly had time in which to change out of his uniform into a suit of London cut, and to remember to carry a tightly rolled umbrella. Leona had popped into Harrod's for a dress so dowdy, it gave her the giggles.
"I told them I wanted something that would please my Edwardian grandmother," she chuckled.
Good. The US Ambassador's daughter was known as one of the most modishly dressed girls in town.
When they had closed the door of their room, alone at last, ready to carry a two-hour courtship to its sexual conclusion, she had looked candidly up into Hank's eyes and had said, "Better tell you. I'm a virgin."
Startled, he at last replied, "Well, good."
"I mean a virgin-virgin, cherry and all. Some girls think that if one of our London lesbys deflowers her with a tonguing, or more likely a fingering, she is technically still a virgin. But with me, cherry is cherry."
"I couldn't agree more. But, uh, do you have many lesbians in London?"
"Enough."
"But apparently you never made it with any of them."
"I didn't say that." Such a direct little creature! And as she spoke, she undressed.
"Then you did?"
"I told her she could lick me but she mustn't put her tongue way down in."
"Did you enjoy it?"
"I had a virgin come. How about that?"
"Not many girls can say it."
"But then, later, it seemed so silly." Now she was undressing him. "This makes more sense." She laughed, looked up at him with a flushed face, for a moment lost her poise and admitted, "Look, I've imagined this so many times and I've had so many hot dreams about it that I know it's what I want."
"We make our lives by our points of view."
"I also, while keeping myself virgin despite a lot of pawing, found out the invariable male point of view." She had his pants down and she had her hand into the front of his underpants. She released the rod that she had no trouble in finding. It sprang out, lance-like, pointing at her navel. "There's the male point of view," Leona said.
"You are so right! But you don't seem startled at the nearness of a naked prick."
"Oh no. I've tickled them. Pulled and pulled on them and watched the stuff squirt. Licked them. Sucked the jisum out. But I've never had one inside me, uh-uh."
He had her typed, now. A teaser. So far and no farther. But the teasers who gave a man relief could make interesting company.
What's more, he didn't feel as though he was in charge of her. She seemed more in charge of him. This at seventeen! She was going to be Madam Ambassador one day. And in politics. Madam Secretary would be a good bet too.
"Leona, what will you do about lesbians when you are Secretary of Human Resources?"
"Tell them to be careful about catching diseases of the tongue and tell them to try out the male point of view, because they ought to know what they are missing."
Hank laughed, slapped her rosy rump. "Into bed with you."
When push came to shove, the child began their sex play in a scared condition. Not much, but he felt it in her tenseness. Yet such was her healthiness that the cunt he fingered grew warmer and warmer. And more and more open. Often the twat lips are called the flowers of a woman. He could see then soften, actually open, the flowers of desire.
Gradually his stroking relaxed her. At the same time it raised her tiny nipples, that with real sex in her life would soon develop into a woman's gorgeous buds.
He found her extra-sensitive in the creases where the tops of the legs meet the belly, in the groin, where those creases point from each side toward the secret recesses of the inmost crotch.
He trailed his lips along those creases. While he did this, the girl touched his hair and the back of his neck and let her own finger follow his tongue along the love-path.
She quivered with the firm body of youth. He thought: You can almost tell a woman's age by the way sex play makes her quiver.
He wasn't very steady himself, just then, with his prick straining outward, bar-stiff with longing. And now she took it into her hand. She had tiny hands. Very delicate. Their touch brought a gasp from him. He saw her smile at that.
But mostly she lay with her head back as though lost in some world of her own while he tongued the bottom of her belly and made little taps upon the clitoris, which swelled and throbbed with a promise of deep sexual longings.
She lay with her head back, her taut little breasts rising and falling quickly, and she let him serve her with man-caresses. That was it. She let him serve her. Well that was the way it was.
Not a bad way at all. As long as she kept hold of his prick. Which she did, holding it to assure herself that her time had come, that at last she was going to have a prick thrust down into her cunt, to drive her into ecstasies she had so far only imagined.