Over the Hills and Faraway, Book 5. Paying the Piper
Chapter 29: Through the Eye of a Needle

Caution: This Drama Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa, Ma/ft, Mult, Consensual, Drunk/Drugged, Heterosexual, Cheating, Revenge, Rough, Group Sex, Black Female, Oral Sex, Anal Sex, Tit-Fucking, Analingus, Violent,

Desc: Drama Sex Story: Chapter 29: Through the Eye of a Needle - Dewey Desmond knew the transition from military to civilian life would be a challenge, but was unprepared for the shocks, surprises ... and some successes ... encountered as he made his way through the turbulent first ten years of the new Millennium, his path strewn with tragedies, triumphs, disasters and delights ... the latter female of course. Follow him to the conclusion of Over the Hills and Faraway; the journey of a life.

The day after returning from Lanzarote I was spent; physically, emotionally and monetarily, but hopefully all only momentarily.

I chuckled as the silly thought came into my mind. The person in front of me, in the queue of people waiting for the ATM outside Iver railway station to become vacant, looked around in surprise.

"I'm glad someone can find something funny to laugh about, mate."

I raised an eyebrow "Anything in particular got you down, pal, or is it just the trivial round and common task?"

He looked at me as if I was a lunatic, or worse, a Baptist, and slowly edged away from the queue, allowing me to be the next supplicant at the hole in the wall. I entered my pin number then pressed the '£100 required' key and waited for the banknotes to be delivered. The screen flashed. 'Insufficient funds. Please remove your card and contact your bank. Have a nice day.'

"Insufficient funds! What the fuck do you mean?" I shouted at the machine.

A man passing by stopped to commiserate. "It's no good shouting at it, mate, you won't get no answer from the bloody thing coz they was made in China and no speeky the English. I had the same message yesterday. I was skint, with nothing left in me account, so you must be too. Best get down to your bank and ask for an overdraft. Good luck."

He disappeared into the station, and I was left glowering at the ATM, debating whether or not to give the thing a bloody good kicking.

"Come along, young man," an old woman standing behind me said. "There are others waiting in the queue." She scowled at me with unconcealed anger. There was a folded brolly in her hand, and I got the distinct impression she was seriously considering battering me over my head with it if I didn't shift my arse.

I gave her a courtly bow. "There you are Madam," I said, pointing to the vacant ATM, "the beast is all yours." I then started gazing about, as if seeking something.

"What's the matter? What are you looking at?" she asked nervously, as if expecting a mugger to burst out on her as she retrieved her money.

"I'm checking to see where you parked your broomstick, love. The traffic wardens are shit hot around here in dishing out parking tickets."

I'm not usually so rude to the elderly, but being without funds can turn even a Francis of Assisi into a Vlad the Impaler.


Some years previously the powers-that-be who manage, for want of a better word, banking in the UK (that is when they are not stuffing their pockets with bonuses and leading their banks into a financial decline) decided to give their customers 'an enhanced level of service, appropriate to the new century'. This led to the closure of many local branches of banks, forcing people to use internet banking, or for those many customers not internet savvy, having to travel on the filthy dirty, overcrowded, unpunctual, overpriced public transport network, and then stand in long queues, to speak to a cashier at a bank in the nearest city.

Of course all the banks had gone to considerable trouble, and little expense, to set up Help Desks to aid those who found it difficult coping with the new arrangements. Sitting at the end of a premium rate telephone line in Bangladesh would be a helpful member of staff, with English as a third language, to deal with customers' problems — yeah, right!


Iver was fortunate in still retaining a branch office of Carblays Bank. I didn't need to make an appointment to see the bank manager, for as soon as I introduced myself to the cashier, a thirty something, dark haired, blue eyed female with a pout and a sultry look about her, in fact an older version of Jenny Walsh and Hannah the Runaway — catnip to me — the manager appeared as if from a magic lamp. And in fact she did look a bit like a djinn.

"Mister Desmond!" The manager, or manageress as she would have been addressed in those far off Non PC days, did not extend her hand to me but ushered me, somewhat abruptly, into her office.

"I do not wish to be disturbed, Gwen," she said to the cashier, before closing the office door. Gwen gave a bored nod, and I gave her a wink, which was ignored.

I sat across the desk from Miss, I mean Miz, Agatha Pennyfeather, the manager of the Iver branch of Carblays Bank— who may the gods of pecuniary protect.

She glared at me. "Thank you for affording me the exquisite pleasure of finally making your acquaintance, Mister Desmond. It has only taken three letters, a dozen e-mails, countless messages left on your answer machine, and a hand delivered letter, for my poor, unworthy office to be graced by your sublime presence. Had I been informed earlier of your benevolent intention to grant me the supreme accolade of a visitation I would have had the red carpet made ready for you, together with a Guard of Honour from Head Office."

Subtlety was obviously not one of Agatha's attributes.

I explained to her I had been away for a week, and having returned only the previous evening had not had time to read my mail; snail or internet, or pick up telephone messages.

"Don't you carry a mobile phone?" Her question was made in a querulous tone of voice, and my negative reply had her bosom swelling in indignation.

"Really, Mister Desmond, this is the twenty first century. One must be plugged in to the internet world at all times. I don't suppose you have watched any news broadcast either while you were away, doing whatever it was you were doing?" She stared accusingly at a Maddy inflicted love bite on my neck, which I had forgotten was above my collar line.

Once again I had to own up to my transgressions.

"Well, there has been another series of banking failures, and among them is the International Investment Bank of the Caribbean."

That took the smile off my face and grabbed my attention. "That's my bank!"

"I'm well aware of your banking arrangements, Mister Desmond. You may recall I warned of the dangers of transferring your capital to an offshore bank, and then having them deposit the monthly interest in our bank." She sniffed with righteous indignation. "Tax avoidance, although not a criminal offence, is a morally reprehensible and repugnant one, and were I not a Christian woman I would gloat that the bank, and those who used it to avoid paying tax, are now bankrupt and penniless."

Christian woman or not, her demeanour suggested she was thoroughly enjoying the vision of all us tax avoiders walking about with the arse hanging out of our trousers, begging for scraps.

"Bloody hell, I had over hundred thousand quid banked with them. How could they lose all that money?" I had built up a stash of over £150,000, but the Seychelles trip and various sundries, like Lanzarote, had accounted for a considerable amount.

Agatha Pennyfeather, taking a great deal of pleasure, explained how I had become skint. The bank had been a favourite haven for British tax dodgers — I mean tax avoiders — and money launderers for South American drug cartels. The huge interest the bank offered, 10.5%, had depositors shovelling in cash, which was reinvested in property and commodities — which I shan't name, but think of knocking shops, and powder to stick up your nose — and I don't mean snuff. When the property market collapsed the bank had to rob Peter to pay Paul; Peter being the millions of small depositors, like yours truly, and Paul being those customers of the bank who would take a perverse delight in burying any banker alive who did not pay back their money. Eventually the buck had to stop — the money had run out, along with the bank's president. The drug cartels found other places to stash their loot and the rest of us found penury.

Agatha sat back in her chair, a smile of pure delight on her face after giving me the details. She opened her desk drawer and drew out a bank statement, a bank statement printed in red, which she handed to me with a flourish, and relish.

"When can we expect you to clear your overdraft, and associated costs, Mister Desmond?" she said, in a voice as sweet as arsenic.

£1567.46!

The figures jumped off the page, slapped me round the chops and kicked me in the goolies. "Err ... I..."

She leaned forward in her chair like a striking cobra, and hissed malevolently. "The bank requires you clear your debt before the end of next month, otherwise we will pass your details to a debt collection agency." She then leaned back in her chair and said conversationally. "The black car I've seen you driving about in would have to be sold for a start."

Her cackling laughter had me gazing about for a black cat and a pointy hat.

Yes, I know I've already used that, but her laugh was really witch like.

I left her office, not even letching at Gwen the sexy cashier on my way out, and made my disgruntled way home.

I could hardly open the apartment door for all the junk mail which had arrived in my absence. Once inside I put the kettle on, and then picked up the pile of papers in the hallway prior to chucking the lot in the recycle bin.

I came upon one envelope bearing the Military System PLC logo and tore it open with feverish fingers. 'They've changed their minds and told Weston to stick his shares up his arse', I thought. 'I've been reinstated', I hoped.

Well no, it wasn't, but it was my monthly pay check as promised by Frank Channing — £3587 — good old Frank. There was a hand written note enclosed which informed me this was the first of the three monthly payments, and included my expenses. The next two cheques would be £3250 each, my basic monthly salary. A £5000 cheque, awarded for my suggestion of drones carrying IED detectors, would be issued in a month or two. It was a life line, although I would have to be careful with my expenditure until I got another job. My holiday was over, and now I had to go about finding new employment.

I quickly deposited the cheque into my current account at the Iver branch of Carblays Bank, and hoped Miz Agatha Pennyfeather would choke on her own bile when the cheque cleared. I also made a date with Gwen Birtles, the sexy cashier. With my now limited resources Yvonne Denby-Graiger in Bayswater, the Dolly Parton look alike, was out of my price range. But the sultry, and hopefully slutty, Gwen lived on a council estate in Slough, and I hoped soon to be placing a hefty deposit in her vault.

It now appeared I had my future sorted: money to tide me over until I picked up a heavier pay cheque with a new firm, and a juicy piece of grumble and grunt available for a session of dick dipping when circumstances allowed.

The latter occurred fairly swiftly — a Porsche really is a knicker dropper.

I drove Gwen home from work the same afternoon I deposited my cheque, and she was all over me.

Being gobbled while driving along a motorway is not specifically banned in the Road Traffic Act of 1991, as amended by the Road Traffic Act of 2001, although there is the catch all offence of 'driving without due care and attention, ' which would have sufficed to get three penalty points added to my licence, or even disqualification, had a police patrol car been on the M4 near Slough that afternoon.

We had barely got onto the motorway before Gwen was giving me a better than adequate blow job at 70 mph — the speed of the car, not her head up and down my pole. It was the first time I had been fellated while driving and it nearly was my last. Her final suck had me arching my back in delight, leading to my right foot stamping on the accelerator and my dick disappearing half way down her throat. The car surged from 70 mph to 120 mph in a split second, and we nearly disappeared up the exhaust pipe of an Eddie Stobart lorry which had been over 300 yards in front, while Gwen spluttered and gasped on a mouth of throbbing flesh and scalding semen.

We had both recovered our equilibrium by the time I pulled up outside her semi on the (in)famous Britwell Estate in Slough. I was looking forward to burying John Thomas in her juicy twat, which if only half as articulated and educated as her mouth would be a consummation devoutly to be wished.

"Sod it," she exclaimed, "I clean forgot the kids are staying with me for the night. You will have to take a rain check, babe."

"Kids; you've got kids? You're married?"

"Yes to the first, no to the second," she said, and then explained she was divorced, and her ex had custody of the children, who spent one a night a week at her place.

It was probably just as well sex was off the menu for the evening. Leaving a Porsche unattended on the Britwell estate would be like leaving a virgin unattended in a brothel.

We soon made up for the aborted first date. I would pick Gwen up from the bank after work and take her for a meal; either in Windsor or Maidenhead, and occasionally in Iver at the Trattoria Di Stephano. Then, after getting her knickers sopping wet with the foreplay of an over the speed limit dash along the motorway in the Porsche, I'd take her back to mine, swifly divest her of the sodden knickers, and the two of us would fuck for England. Later, if she didn't stay over, an exhausted me would put an equally exhausted her in a taxi to take back to 'The Brit'.

Gwen was warm, wet, and very willing; and although quite aggressive and vocal when orgasmic, surprisingly comfortable, comforting and gentle before and after. However Attila the Hun would appear gentle after Lady Madeline's usage of me in Lanzarote.

After a week of delightfully carnal dalliance with Gwen I decided it time to return to gainful employment. I had been a Project Coordinator at MilSys, which was executive status, so bugger queuing up with all those losers at the Unemployment Office and signing on for the dole. Instead I registered with a few Executive and Management recruitment agencies in Central London; with my proven track record I would have no problem getting an executive position in any type of company. I had a portfolio of the projects I had seen to completion; a glowing reference from Frank Channing, and my extensive CV, making me a shoo in for any executive job.

Those bastards up on Mount Olympus must have been pissing their togas laughing.

March 3rd, 2009. Central London.

Blue Chip Executive Recruitment had a swanky office in Knightsbridge, so it was little wonder they charged an arm and a leg to register with them.

I was shown into the office of 'my personal vocation attainer', which meant in realspeak the bloke dealing with my application for work. He enthused over my portfolio and CV, and assured me there would be a queue of would be employers lining up to offer me work when my details were distributed.

He was in full flow of how only yesterday one of their client companies had asked for someone to fill a recently vacated executive position.

'They could have you in mind, Mister Desmond, asking for exactly the same skill set you possess," blah, blah, blah. His phone rang, and he excused himself to answer it.

"Yes ... he's here. Oh ... are you sure? Well it seems ... of course. Yes, goodbye."

He put the phone down, then turned and faced me, with an embarrassed expression on his red face. "I'm awfully sorry, Mister Desmond, but I've just been informed we are not taking on any more clients at this time. We already have a backlog of applicants, and by some misunderstanding, probably a glitch in the computer sysstem, your application was accepted. Your registration fee will of course be reimbursed, and Blue Chip Executive Recruitment apologise for any inconvenience," He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a sheaf of coupons,"and hope you will accept these Luncheon Vouchers, which can be redeemed at the Tokyo Rose Ichaban Japanese Restaurant, as a token of our regret we were not able to meet your expectations."

He took my arm and hurried me to the office door. "I'm sure in a month of two we will be taking further registrations. Have a nice day."

The door slammed, and I was left standing in the lobby of the building clasping a handful of coupons, baffled at the sudden change from being flavour of the month to stench of the day. Civvies — what a bunch of tossers.

I handed the coupons to a bloke selling the Big Issue outside Knightsbridge tube station. I hope his dog liked sushi.

There were other agencies I had registered with, and maybe they wouldn't be staffed by deadlegs.

Unfortunately they all seemed to be. My next port of call was Top Gun Executive Employment. Once again I was greeted with enthusiasm, but after my details had been entered into their date base came a sudden change of atmosphere. Once again I was handed luncheon vouchers as an apology, to be redeemed at Kemal's Döner Kebab Kitchen.

By the time I had been rebuffed, well it was more like getting the bum's rush, at the third agency I was beginning to feel despondent. I stood in the lobby at Careers R Us with another bunch of coupons in hand — El Toro Tapas Bar — does no one in executive recruitment eat proper food? As I stared at the rain pissing down outside, deciding what to do next, a plain faced young woman, who I had noticed earlier in the outer office where my details had been taken, and then rejected, approached me.

"I can't let you go wasting your time visiting the rest of the agencies, Mister Desmond," She said. "You have been black listed with all the major recruitment agencies in London."

"Why, who... "? I said, but there was a fishy whiff of Bertram Weston in the air.

"We received an e mail from Weston Holdings, warning us you are a whistle blower, which no firm would take the chance of employing. Are you a whistle blower, Mister Desmond?" She asked, wide eyed.

"No, but I'm the soon to be ex-son- in-law of Bertram Weston. I'm divorcing his daughter, and he is not best pleased."

She was aghast. "But that's terrible. I would imagine you would have a case to take to an employment tribunal, or even the police. Surely it's slander to spread false rumours and deny employment?"

"Bertram Weston would swamp any court with his lawyers; in fact I wouldn't put it past him to have some 'evidence' of my alleged whistle blowing, in case I did go to law." I said.

She sighed. "Of course Weston Holdings do a great deal of business with Careers R Us, and with the other recruitment agencies for executive level employment. All tend to dance to the tune of he who pays the piper, which is why I couldn't let you go around to all the other agencies only to be rejected."

I thanked her, and she gave a sad smile and disappeared back up the stairs. Nice arse: shame about the face.

Well, thanks to Plain Jane I knew now where I stood — which was up shit's creek without a paddle. There would be no chance of a good salaried position with the taint of whistle blower hanging around my neck.


"What's the matter, babe?" Gwen propped herself on her elbow and gazed solicitously down at me. We were in bed, and I had been unable to raise enough wood to give her a third helping of man meat.

I had returned to Iver depressed after my futile job search; Gwen had alleviated the depression with her freely given voracious body when I brought her back to mine after work. Our practice, when entering my apartment, was to have a frenzied first fuck, then, after regaining out breath have a slower, but still energetic, second shag, then after a drink or two take a long slow ramble along the road to the Climax Inn. This evening, however, I didn't finish the ramble as I developed a limp middle leg.

Gwen, bless her, made a joke about my age — there was a ten year gap between us, and I part redeemed myself by applying my best muff diving technique to her neglected cunt. She responded with enthusiasm as my tongue ferreted around her labia lips, although she remarked later. '"Licking, biting, and kissing my twat it's all very well, babe ... I get off on it and usually come, but nothing beats a hot throbbing knob rubbing her G spot in bringing a girl to a screaming orgasm."

I told her of my troubles in finding an agency to take me on for employment, and she comfortingly hugged me to her breasts. I sucked and licked her nipples, an action which would bring John Thomas to rigid attention under normal circumstances, but not then, unfortunately.

"There's plenty of part time, cash in hand, jobs about, babe. Bouncers at pubs and clubs, late night taxi drivers," she said.

"I was hoping for something rather more substantial. I'm alright financially for the next two months, but then will have no regular income, other than my army pension, which is bladders."

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