Chapter 3

I had trouble getting into the bathroom, because my chin kept hitting the raised tiles at the entrance. I had almost finished shaving. I hadn't shaved for nine years for Christ's sake and there was a lot of facial fungus to remove. I did a hunt, but I couldn't find any scissors ... which would have shaved the time dramatically (hee, hee! Sorry, I won't do it again).

I threw some cold water over my naked face (which was displaying more razor burn than anything else), when Sal passed me a bottle of lotion as she walked by, naked, to run the shower until it was hot.

"Put it on both before and after the shower. I'll use some so you don't come too fast, later. Then we can be a bit more leisurely about it. Clever of you about the tracer but I should have realised years ago just how clever you really are."

I rubbed copious amounts of lotion into the raw skin then opened the sliding glass shower door and joined the most beautiful woman I have ever known or heard of, whom I have loved, unconditionally, for the past eight years ... or, for as long as I've known her.

Her arse ... I will freely admit I noticed her bum eight years ago. At the time I actually cried due to the waste of such beauty. I couldn't bear that it was being used by, held, rubbed, and freely caressed exclusively by an old woman. Just the thought put me off my food for three days.

Her breasts ... in our first operation, I had her braless in a sheer white silk blouse, as a distraction to get past a young guard into a Croatian Embassy party in Moscova. It worked well. I showed admirable self-restraint until she bent in front of me using my body ostensibly to lean on to repair her stiletto heel, in reality for me to pick the lock we were leaning against with more than a hundred people surrounding us. I came in my pants.

Her nipples are bright pink. I had always previously thought of the colour as 'virgin nipple pink', which shows you just how much or little I know. I'd gained my colour knowledge, amongst other forms of education, from my seven sisters. Her nipples are as long, as thick, and almost as firm as the first joint of my index finger. Her breasts are one and a half rock melon size, without any droop, due to her muscularity and fitness level. She rubbed both of them across my chest as she scraped past me to enter the unlocked door. I came a second time in two minutes but my erection refused to subside until we had completed what we had come there for and were driving down the road twenty minutes later.

With room to spare, I could easily put both of my hands to meet around her waist which was mainly lower back muscle, spine and six pack, I have no idea where her stomach liver and kidneys fitted in her overall scheme of things, having little room left over for them.

Her navel was a work of art, embedded in her six-pack. I had seen the six-pack numerous times before, around assorted hotel swimming pools, as she wore a miniscule pink bikini. It was identical in tone to her nipples, which was all it hid on top as it doesn't enclose her breasts. The bottom sits inside her labia but does not actually cover them. The sides swoop over the top of her hip bones. I think that bikini was either a favourite of us both, or her only one, as she used it so regularly.

One extremely hot summer's day in Roma, the complete team was doing the army thing. We'd done the 'hurry up' in our preparation as that was the urgent bit. Then we were doing the interminable 'wait', before commencing the operation. The semi-detached villa we had rented had a three metre tall double brick fence. On the other side of the fence a man was telling someone, rather forcibly, to join him and fuck him, now. I liked it when he said not to take her panties off as he couldn't wait and would fuck her right through them.

One corporal said he wondered what the bloke was going on about because he sounded a bit excited. I replied I had no idea. At which point I glanced at Teresa and she was using the skirt of her sundress to fan her face. She was smiling for some reason. Her eyes were closed and I was face to face with a beautiful, luscious, juicy, tight pussy. If I didn't know that it was impossible with the Colonel in the next room, I'd have sworn that it was a very excited, pussy. Vulva was too technical, cunt was too crude, and only the Old Bag would have what could only be described as a box. This was a blonde haired, virginal appearing, 'pussy to die for'.

The other chaps were all facing towards the dividing fence and I had just decided that I was going to eat my own eyeballs when the Colonel joined us. He told us the operation would begin in one hour. We were to prepare all the equipment which I had supplied and to ensure that we adhered strictly to my plan. Timing was critical, etc. etc. That mind boggling pussy had been put back into its hiding place. I almost cried due to the loss, practically going into official mourning.

When I entered the shower I near swallowed my tongue. The sight of her almost made me forget the main reason I was there. If any smart arse mentions 'to have a shower', I will push a finger up each nostril into their brain. She reminded me why I was there, by turning towards me and wrapping her arms around my neck. I placed a hand under each arse cheek and slowly raised her light body as I kissed her eyes and her luscious lips, with her tongue attempting to reach my tonsils. I nibbled at the hollow where her neck meets her shoulder beneath her delicate shell like ear; she squeaked and spasmed.

I lifted her further to observe God's almost perfect creation in her breasts and their improvement, her nipples. I swear they squirted into my mouth as I squeezed each wondrous extrusion with my teeth and lips. She squealed and tore two large tufts of my hair out whilst spasming again. I licked and sucked as I lifted her body further and I pierced her navel with my tongue.

Her voice was shouting in an unnaturally higher octave, "Oh yes, oh yes!"

She became even louder as I drew her up and changed hand grips under her thighs, and surrounded her complete vulva with my mouth, then pieced her vagina with my tongue.

This was God's true perfection. She was sitting on my shoulders, facing me, as I made oral love with my tongue licking up and around where her pearl like clitoris sometimes peeked. It kept peeking out then disappearing as she had each mini-orgasm.

By the way the shower screen was moving, she must be resting her hands on its top as I slowly allowed her body to slide down mine. We were deeply kissing as I removed any vestige she may have had of her hymen. She certainly did not notice its removal.

She wrapped her slim, professional dancer's muscular legs around my waist. Her arms went around my neck. I didn't move myself in any way. She moved herself forward and back only hesitating occasionally to screech out and shout my name. Holding her magical body hard against mine, I lifted and lowered her against me, until she cried softly and her urine gushed to mix with the now tepid shower water.

Her total body weight now rested on my hands and my erection. I turned off the water and carried her insensible body into the room full of clothes, laying her softly down. I had done what I had wanted to do. I had worshipped this body and the person whom I had idolised for so long.

Anybody who believes that the sole object of sex is for a man to orgasm and spread his genetics far and wide has no inkling of what he is missing.

Her eyes were crossed when she first opened them. Then they came into focus immediately like two shotgun barrels looking at me with everything I've always wanted - her love.

"I love you, my angel," I whispered.

Her lips met mine so fiercely I think she split our lips against our teeth.

Eric poked his head around the door jamb, "Did you leave any hot water?"

"No!" We both called back in perfect harmony.

"Merde!" he swore, then muttered that he'd use the shower first in the next house before the ceremony.

"I think we should get dressed," she murmured, then looked down along me. "Goodness gracious, doesn't that thing go down?"

"It never has before when you're around me."

"You know, I've noticed that. I'd begun thinking of your phallus as the eighth wonder of the world, except I'd had no experience to compare it to other men. Daddy says not so, therefore and ergo, you must be. Did you make me pregnant?"

"I think it's possible but improbable, as I haven't come, yet. Until I come inside you, you're still a virgin in my eyes. You will remain so until I make you a woman. Then I expect nothing less than triplets, as the back-pressure will force my seed deep inside your womb."

It was at that point I realised we were both speaking fluent mid-country Italiano, as most television bred Italians speak these days.

"God, I'm thick! You understood everything that neighbour in the villa said, didn't you?" I said.

"Uh, huh! I almost killed Dad when he called us to start the operation. Your eyes were almost inside me and I left a major puddle behind on the seat."

"I was so excited I was seriously thinking of eating my eyeballs because they had been so deep inside your pussy."

She screamed with happy laughter.

"Come on you, we'd better get dressed," she said, then frowned down at my nether regions. "I can't leave you like that."

She lowered her face and took me into her mouth then straight down her throat, and then she hummed! I swear she won't need to eat again for two full days!

"We'll discuss that later," she said, licking her lips with relish.

I sat back, dazed, and agreed. If she'd told me the room was a marshmallow, I would have agreed to that as well.

The clothing we were wearing was an odd assortment of bits and pieces, with nonmatching assorted material and coloured thongs for footwear, which will fit in perfectly with our next destination. They all appeared to be rejects from the Saint Vincent De Paul rag bag. Both Eric and daughter wore interchangeable blonde wigs to cover the military issue head job. Luckily, the photos only needed to be head shots. To me, Eric seemed more natural in woman's clobber and the long blonde wig.

Sydney might be my old home town, but I was lost. Eric drove, and my Angel and I discussed our reactions to other jobs: the unlocked door, ("I came as I squeezed past you, I was sure you'd notice!"... "I didn't notice, because I was making a mess in my pants at the time!").

"One funny thing," she said to us both over the engine noise, "Pat walked out of the base with a full beard, carrying a loaded outdated M16. That's against all regs but not a soul noticed."

It's easily understood. Everyone must have been watching her.

The next safe house was in the furthest reaches of Campbelltown, an overcrowded, mainly public housing suburb, housing dole bludgers and low wage slaves. The wage slaves travel in public transport for hours each day, incurring travel costs taking up to a third of their low incomes. They have been forcibly put there because rents elsewhere are beyond their means, artificially kept there in an ever worsening cycle, by greedy landlords.

The Government pays the dole bludgers about half as much as low wage slaves get. They don't lift a finger, and, not having the expense of fares, etc. they have double the disposable income. They live in public housing estates paying rents controlled by the State tied to their dole. All they need to do is get a piece of paper signed by some struggling businessmen who'd love to be able to afford to employ someone. The businessmen still wouldn't employ anyone else though as they have better uses for any extra money. And what the hell, the rent was negligible in public housing.

Western Sydney is too-fuckin' country, always too fuckin' hot or too fuckin' cold. I'd loathed this area with a passion when I was a kid growing up and hadn't retained any fonder memories of it since.

The news was reporting a major gas explosion at Holsworthy Barracks, South-West of Sydney. Speculation was of a possible terrorist attack, as the base has been targeted previously. Targeted? When? Were they saying there had been other terrorist explosions at the base? The media boggle me. Speculation? By whom? Some wet behind the ears junior reporter talking to another of the same ilk.

You can be sure that no one, otherwise known as 'official sources', would tell the media this. No casualties had been reported, and the talking heads sounded disappointed. As we had proven, someone dressed like Fidel could walk out of the base, and no one would notice. The security was that slack. Although ... I'd done much the same in the Kremlin. But even I knew that was a oncer.

Eric and Sal, as a team, had produced a full set of perfectly acceptable official identification by ten that night. This was the first time I'd ever held a New South Wales driver's licence, which was supposed to be impossible to counterfeit. My new passport was an improvement on the original one the government supplied. I already had eight others. One had gotten me in and out of Israel's Tel Aviv airport, so that one would get me through any airport security on Earth.

Father and daughter were doing their bit so it's up to me to do mine. I had decided to discuss my one problem. I knew before I even entered the country that I couldn't work my way around him: the inimitable Sergeant Hanson. Who was he? Where does he fit into the jigsaw puzzle? He knows our methods and, to a certain extent, our identities and our capabilities. I think he would be sympathetic in a pinch but he has never displayed anything outside the capability to kill and dismember. Hell, Sal was expert at that.

How does he fit into the picture and will our opposition aim him at us? Do they even control him? He would need someone of my skills to present him a target. Presumably, he wasn't being groomed to take my place, as he hasn't displayed any planning skills. On the same basis I wasn't groomed, or trained, just purely natural talent – 'act professional, son, act professional. False modesty is as big an error as overconfidence'.

I'd already had the skills by default when I had entered the ambassadorial service. I don't believe he has them, so he'd always need a facilitator. Do they have anyone coming up in the ranks? The question was 'Do I have an equal or at least a wannabe?' No equal has been displayed, or I would have been replaced far earlier. It was far more likely to be a wannabe on the rise.

Was I his baptism of fire? Now I was getting somewhere. Were the Corporals still alive? They would have been the first (attempted?) removal, as they were freely available and not expecting anything. The fire and the skeletons don't mean an awful lot, as I was the one to train them. It was an excellent means of covering their tracks. I will get my computer expert/sex object/love interest onto my questions so I can advance.

"Sal, are you available?"

I gave her my list of questions beginning with the Corporals' survival and a new facilitator being inducted? As for Sergeant Hanson's identity, and who he works for, I'd see Eric on that matter. He probably has some idea.

"Ah, yes! The mysterious Sergeant Hanson! I was wondering when you would bring him to my attention. Sal and I have already done some time on him. She took six computer-weeks to ferret you out, and only found your birth name, and therefore who your family is. That 'Cadwalledar' name," and he shook his head. "She has already spent almost two computer-months on him. So far, she has only found what he's not. He's not Special Forces, though he has left some of his signature in Israel, Palestine, Afghanistan, Iraq, Iran, and Russia ... though Russia is iffy, as the Russian mafia has another with that MO, and he's ex-Spetsnaz as well. He's not armed forces any more, but is armed forces sourced, as his proven skills show. His name's not Hanson and he's not a Sergeant and he's not Australian."