Chapter 10

Patricia on the French Side

Lady Patricia Prendergast was truly her father’s daughter.

Harry thought about the old man now and then and he wondered if he was causing as much trouble wherever he resided at present as he did when he was in charge of British Intelligence Services. He personally had hated working for the old fool because of deep-seated differences of opinion but underlying his animosity, he would be the first one to admit that he probably disliked the man intensely because he was the one that had given his Patricia her first taste of sex and had helped to form her sexuality from a very early age according to the rules of society.

She had never told him specifically what had transpired but he got the message from her jumbled words spoken in her sleep beside him in dangerous situations in odd places too numerous to mention. “Oh, yes, Daddy, right there, you know how much I like it there.”

The mumbled and troubling words haunted his ears even years later.

“Please Daddy, don’t stop. I promise to be a good girl.”

The way she would fall to her knees in front of him in her finely tailored pants suit and her impeccable French nylon reinforced pantyhose and use her skilled tongue to bring him to the hardness they both knew was necessary for a tea-time bend-over in some out of the way place where they would not attract any attention. He knew that he would always find her wet and ready for loving in the much preferred old-fashioned way with no fancy words or kinky mannerisms that the both rejected as totally unnecessary for satisfactory consummation of their coupling bliss.

Patricia was not one for romance or silly airs of passion when she needed his dick buried deep inside her core. All she required was a bit of lubrication to get her started and a hard knobbing to keep her head down and her ass up for all the rest. That is what Harry liked best about her despite her annoying habit of always asking “Do you love me, Harry?” at those moments when silence is the best policy in his humble unstated opinion.

At the moment they were very close to home-base on the other side of the channel not far from the entrance to the French side of the impossible tunnel under the channel that caused more problems than it solved in these days of British displeasure with the entire concept of a United Europe that threatened the way of life in Britain with waves of non-English speaking immigrants all searching for paradise and a nice cup of tea in the afternoon hours.

Harry had already taken her knickers down with little thought about the bad behavior judgement if caught red-handed in the tiny car with French plates and no connection to the Embassy at all. He momentarily contemplated the rudeness of shoving his demanding cock up his beloved Patricia’s buttocks in broad daylight risking mussing up her facial cosmetic charm with his need for solace between her legs. His only excuse was that he felt an urgency that he was loath to reject because they were absolutely alone and the place was secluded in the shadows of a gloomy, rainy mid-week day afternoon.

The Chunnel headquarters were informed of their presence and they attempted to coordinate with the stand-offish French authorities but were truly turned-off by the haughty attitude that seemed to accuse them of personally organizing the Brexit process that was already in process and unlikely to change without hard feelings on both sides of the channel built to help unify them and not become a source of added problems for a county that wanted a border and not an open door for everyone with a desire to live there and not merely to visit or sightsee like tourists and not tenured citizens with certain unalienable rights in any court of law.

The welfare state was still in a formative stage across the map of Europe and even Britain feared external strife as well as internal strife as a clear and present danger to their flimsy system of government that required loyalty to the state as a primary accord of residence.

Harry used his folded hanky to wipe away the evidence of their mutual passion from Lady Patricia’s expensive tailored suit and he even swiped it between her legs to absorb some of his creamy emissions from her made in Paris bought undies with the lace flowers on the edges sitting innocently as witnesses to their frenzied movements only a short time before when nothing else mattered than finally reaching that point of no return when their mutual release was the only thing on their mind and required their full attention to achieve the best tingle ever.

We had come up slowly from the south following the coastline avoiding the sleazy tourist traps that lured you in and took your last Euro with promises of quality never delivered. I scooped up a half drunken Patricia from a roulette table down in Nice and she looked never lovelier albeit painfully sunburned from too much sun resting totally naked on the deck of a Saudi prince’s yacht out in the harbor. I took her to her hotel room and greased her up with lots of lotion before even attempting to touch her reddened skin.

Quickly, I explained that London had cut her vacation short because of a flap over certain elements of the Syrian regime organizing a chaotic cutting of the Chunnel as a sort of parting gift from them just before our government left the squabbling countries of the European Union behind in their rear view mirror hoping to retain some vestiges of their former glory and respect as one of the primary leaders of the hopes and aspirations of the free world in economic freedom.

I had already had a run-in with some Chechen renegades on the docks in Marseilles following up a lead that pinpointed the shipment of detonators that they were collecting to bring to the Chunnel for an explosive celebration of the Brexit departure. Somehow, I had managed to take a slug in my left bicep just outside my armored vest that left me in a position that I needed Patricia to drive the car the remainder of the way up to our assigned defensive positions near French entry point outside of Calais.

We had plenty of time so I timed our arrival close to the target date avoiding detection by the Russian players on the ground fomenting trouble for the European Union and Britain at the same time.

Patricia told me I should stop and have a doctor cut the slug out from the meaty part of my shoulder but I hesitated to take that step because I knew it would cause a lot of paperwork with the French authorities and leave us vulnerable out in the open on the ground in the danger zone.

I chugged down the anti-biotics and tightly wrapped the arm hoping that our business would be concluded quickly and allow me to get some medical attention back in London where we could count on the discretion of our own medical staff.