'Langley is worried about our asset base. It's something neither side has turned their attention to.'
'So who's going to be the first to call in their sleepers?'
Nowak shrugged as he slid his trousers off, his hardness not affected by the discussion with Sorge. The American kept his eyes on Mary's face, not wanting to lose the heat that drove him.
'Is it time to bring our people in from the cold?' asked Sorge, now almost completely undressed.'
'That's not our decision.'
'But we need to know what your people want.'
'That's what I was asked to find out. What you want. It's a fucking stalemate. I mean, who's going to be the first to make that decision. And how do we monitor it? Who's going to believe the other's pulled all his sleepers in? ' Nowak stood up on the bed, straddling over the whore. 'You want to go first?' he asked.
'No, no. After you. This one's on me.'
'Ever the diplomat, Dimi. Ever the diplomat.' Nowak lowered himself over Mary's face, knelt over her and pushed his penis into her mouth. 'We need to know what's going on out there, Dimi. We need to know.' His voice was urgent and breathless, not because of the content of his words but because the whore sucked him hard into her.
'It must be stopped. Before it gets out of hand,' muttered the Russian to a disinterested audience.
Sorge climbed onto the bed, behind Nowak and hoisted the whore's hips up with his arms, positioned her so he could enter her as she occupied herself elsewhere. He looked at the American's moving back, admired the firm muscles and wished the girl wasn't there. With Mary's legs now firmly wrapped round him, trapped by his bulk, he put his arms round Nowak, knew the American would think he was only holding him for support. Then he pushed with his hips and grinned as he heard her squeal as he claimed the hell hole for his own. She tried to yelp with the sharp pain, but there was little she could do, jammed to the bed by the weight of the two big men, both pumping at her as they worked towards their release.
Outside the candle lit window, the first snows were starting to fall on the streets of Washington. People rushed by, cars were driven impatiently, the last few jets took off over the Potomac from Washington National Airport as travellers looked forward eagerly to the warmth and comfort of their suburban homes.
Hosanna. It was going to be a white Christmas.
Ch. 13
There was no snow that Christmas in San Diego.
There never was, apart from what was sprinkled on the trees in the windows of the downtown department stores.
Billie Wood had never seen a white Christmas, except on television. She had once spent Christmas in Atlantic City. There had been no snow, only wind and rain and a bone chilling cold that made her yearn for her native California. Her companion, an early lover after she had split with her husband, was as wet as the weather and spent most of his time at the dice table. She had left him there, spending the fortune he never had and was trying to win, and caught the only flight available back to San Diego. It was Boxing Day and she spent a lonely holiday by the TV set wondering where Peter was. And who he was with.
'You want some grapefruit juice for breakfast?' Billie called from the kitchen as she poured a herbal tea into the pot.
'What d'ya say?' Gary shouted back at her from the exercise room.
'Do you want grapefruit juice?' she replied, louder so that he could hear.
'Yeah,' came the muffled reply.
She poured two grapefruit juices into the tumblers and put them on the large tray, next to the pot of tea, the two cups and the Swiss muesli that was all ready milked in the two bowls. She picked up the tray and left the kitchen, walked through the sitting area and bedroom and into the exercise area that opened onto the balcony.
'Hi, babe,' panted Gary, a gleaming muscle machine, strapped to an exercise bench with weights above his shoulders as he pumped iron, the weights sliding up and down in the iron frame as he pushed himself beyond the limit.
She smiled warmly at him and put the tray on the table by the sliding doors. She turned to watch, admired his twenty five year old body that was his pride and joy. His short jogging shorts were glued to his body by the perspiration he generated, his muscles straining as he lifted his inner self beyond pain and physical limits. She compared him to Peter, he of the burnt out and wasted muscles, the bloated waistline and the thinning hair.
He'd be in his 'I want to be younger, designer clothes' now. The girl on his arm his latest accessory. Designer woman to go with his designer clothes.
Go away, Peter. This day has nothing to do with you.
She walked over to Gary, letting her short housecoat fall open and reveal her nakedness, apart from a white G-string panty. She knelt by his head, pulled her stomach in and fondled his blonde locks, ran her fingers through his hair. California blond. It's how she liked her men. Except for Peter, damn him.
'You okay, babe?' she whispered in his ear, gently blowing into it.
'Easy, baby. I gotta finish.' He was in his own world, trying to crash his own barriers, irritated by her interruption.
But she wasn't prepared to be dissuaded. It was Christmas. Even if there wasn't any snow.
She slipped off her housecoat and moved further down the bench, watched the sweat running off his chest and stomach muscles. She loved the smell of his body juices and she rubbed her face over his skin, tasted its salty wetness with her tongue. He ignored her, concentrated on his task. She moved lower, her tongue still probing as she neared the top band of his shorts.
'I gotta finish,' he gasped as he pushed the weight upward once again.
'Later, baby. Do it later.' She reached down and slid his shorts down to his ankles. It wasn't true what they said about body builders. They were as big, if not bigger than most others. She reached towards it, tentatively and full of wonder. It always surprised her how this small tube of flesh grew and developed into the hard manhood that she craved for. It was a magic moment, that short instance between limp futility and hardened ecstasy. She leant forward, her mouth about to absorb his softness.
'For Chris'sake, Billie!' he shouted, the weight banging down on its stops as he let it go. He sat up suddenly, his anger obvious. 'I gotta finish my programme. You know I gotta do that every day.'
'You killed the passion!' she yelled back, picking up her robe as she stood up. 'It's Christmas, damn it. What's wrong with that. Fuck your programme. Just for one stinking day. Can't you do that for me.'
She wrapped her robe round herself and rushed to the door. She turned and looked at him, the hurt and humiliation wrenching at her.
'You look fucking ridiculous,' she derided him. 'Lying there, working out on your body, your pants round your fucking ankles.'
He swung his legs off the exercise bench and attempted to pull up his shorts, but they had twisted in their dampness and he struggled, tripping over them and crashed to the floor. He swore loudly as the pain stabbed at his knee and he gripped it tightly, the entangled shorts now forgotten.
She was suddenly concerned for him and she rushed forward to help, but he pushed her away.
'Fuck off!' he shouted. 'Don't treat me like shit. Just 'cos you pay all the bills. Don't…'
'I'm sorry, Gary baby.' She despised her own pleading, but couldn't stop herself. 'I didn't mean it. I just wanted you. I just…'
'I could've busted my knee. Damn it, I could've been hospitalised.'
'I'm sorry. I just wanted to share something with you. It's Christmas.'
'You should've waited.'
'I just wanted to be with you.'
'You just wanted to fuck. That's all you think I'm worth. Just someone to fuck.'