This last remark reminded her how lucky she was—she had come to love having two or three men in a day; together was good, but separately indulged her dreams of misbehaving. And she loved to feel Schneider inside her while still wet from the target. She thrilled to think about his soft, gentle, but dominating techniques.
The main team had assembled in the back court of the embassy. Louise had already left, walking five blocks before hailing a Checker for the Willard.
The transport pool driver drove Hoffmann first to the archive building and then to the White House. Hoffmann was pleased to see it was Jones, a dim-witted boy from Biloxi, Mississippi. It seemed Jones’s main interests were disposing of his wages as quickly as possible in illegal poker games, and as Jones put it, “dames.”
Hoffmann chatted to Jones as Jones drove the dun-colored Packard.
“With a car like this, you must get all the dames.”
“I wish, sir.”
“Well, you’ll get lucky sooner or later. All the pool drivers tell me the dames love just to sit in the back and they are always very generous.”
Jones snickered.
“Maybe I will get lucky,” Jones said in an accent so thick Hoffmann would not have understood had he not started the conversation.
Hoffmann entered the archive building and took the elevator to B3, where the WPR folder was placed in the security briefcase.
“No idea when I will be back,” Hoffmann said.
The officer simply grunted, “Yeah, God knows.”
Hoffmann made his way to the White House and told Jones to wait for him behind the Willard hotel.
“I will meet you there—make sure to behave and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Jones laughed.
“He’s a nice boy,” Hoffmann thought.
On entering the White House, Hoffmann was taken directly to the Oval Office. The President gave the security key to Hopkins and asked Hopkins to unlock the case and remove the thin, bright-orange folder. Hopkins complied and Hoffmann left to wait in the basement cafeteria while the great men upstairs pondered the contents.
An hour later, the call came to return to the Oval Office. The President was, as before, sitting behind his desk. Hoffmann placed the brief case on the table and discretely averted his eyes. Hopkins placed the folder in the case and locked the peripheral locks.
“All set, Captain, and thank you,” said the President.
“Yes sir, Mr. President,” and Hoffmann gave his best parade-ground salute and left.
Jones had dropped off Hoffmann and drove the one block to the Willard, almost getting into a traffic accident in the process. Jones parked behind the hotel, locked the car, and sauntered into the hotel, not that he had the courage to even order a cup of coffee, but he liked to look at all the high-class “dames.” Like many, he heard that the Willard was a favorite area for politicians to meet their mistresses. Whether true or not, Jones did not care, he just loved to gawk. He summoned up the courage to change two dollar bills for the Willard Coins—the Willard cleaned all coins they collected in huge vats in the basement and gave all who asked for change these sparkling pristine coins, “just like the moment they were minted” was the hotel’s boast. Many years later the St. Francis in San Francisco adopted the same practice, but by then “Willard Coins” was part of the American vocabulary.
After an hour and lots of unfriendly looks from the concierge, Jones left to return to his car.
As he turned the corner, he saw what he first thought was someone trying to break into his car. He panicked for an instant, then he realized it was a “dame” using his side mirror to touch up her lip stick. The captain had been right—it was his lucky day. The car was parked so Louise could not see Jones approaching but she knew exactly what would happen—a ham-fisted and painfully obvious pass.
“You know there’s a law against that—it’s called illegal use of government property.”
Louise gasped and turned.
Jones eyes went directly to her nipples, as she knew they would.
“Oh please, don’t report me,” she said.
“You know there is a much bigger mirror inside; let me show you.”
Louise smiled, demure and vulnerable, as Schneider had taught her.
Jones unlocked the car and opened the door for the lady. Louise entered, making sure her pencil skirt rode up her legs to mid-thigh. None of this was lost on Jones, who showed her the larger interior side mirror.
“You’re so kind, but why does a military vehicle have mirrors at all? I mean you soldier men are warriors and fighters.”
This last sentence she asked with just a hint of breathlessness. Then came the fluttering of the eyelashes, the look down at his baggy serge trousers, and the mandatory touching of her hair—the universal sign of a woman in heat. Jones’s inexperience made him miss this last sign, but he was already well and truly hooked.
Louise—like all experienced women—loved to tease, to flirt, and to tempt a man-child like Jones. She was expecting him to be a 30-second man. No matter, Schneider would make her climax four or five times when she returned to his office—she could already smell the leather of his chair on which she would be forced face down—she loved to be taken from behind by a confident and forceful man. Power.
“Well, Miss, you see here in D.C., we drivers drive not just military men, but also their wives and…”
“Their mistresses,” excitedly Louise finished the sentence.
“Oh God, that is so exciting; do you ever get excited doing this, you know driving these girls—does that excite you? Driving the mistresses? Driving these young women who love to do it for money? You know, do sex for money? God, if it was me, I would be so excited. I would love to be paid for sex. Tell me some stories, what have you seen? You must have seen a lot, right? Gosh, that is so exciting. Have you seen things?”
Her breathlessness was genuine—“just think about it and start touching yourself—excite yourself and you will excite him,” were Schneider’s words. And Schneider’s advice worked.
While asking, Louise was ever so slightly rubbing her legs, not just for poor Jones, but also because she was getting genuinely aroused and she could squeeze herself to deepen and extend her excitement, just as her mentor had said.
Jones told her the story of when he picked up a four-star general and his 19-year-old “niece”—“actually, here from the Willard.” The general was a desk soldier in the quartermaster corp or some other backwater.
“Well, he was three sheets, no make that four sheets,” he said, laughing at his own description.
The girl looked at Jones in the rear view mirror and their eyes meet.
“It was as if she was wishing it was me in the back,” Jones said with a rare flash of insight.
“Go on,” Louise said.
“Well, she disappeared from view for a minute, and then I could see the old general close his eyes and start to moan.”
With this, Louise pulled her dress up and started touching herself. Many men think a woman touching them is the most exciting element in foreplay, but as Louise knew so well when she touched herself the man watching was instantly aroused. And Jones was no exception. He looked at her. He was about to say something when she panted, “Keep going, please.”
Jones continued and Louise could feel herself starting to get very excited—“enough of this, back to work” she said to herself.
Rasping, she said “I want to be the girl; can I?”
Jones nodded.
Before he could change his mind, she had him in her mouth.
Clean, uncut, reasonable size, she noted.