She could taste a little early juice and knew if she wasn’t very careful it would be all over very soon, and she wanted a gift for Schneider.
“You must fuck me—please put that cock inside me and dump all of it inside me, please, please, do it to me, I need your cock today. I never get enough cock. Never enough.”
The last two statements were true—the more men she got, the more she wanted; today she would need more than Jones.
As expected, Jones was a 30-second man and Louise had her “come back,” as she liked to call it, ready.
“God, that was so good; thank goodness you stopped—I thought my heart was going to stop.”
Jones smiled, the conquering hero.
“Sir, I have one more request, can you bite my nipples, but bite them a little, not too much, just a little.”
Jones complied and Louise did actually climax.
“I don’t know about you, but I need a cigarette, you got any, sir?”
As Louise told Schneider later, the “sir” made Jones putty.
Ten minutes earlier, Hoffmann had left the White House and had walked toward the Willard. But instead of going behind it to the car, he kept walking for another three blocks. In the quiet back street was a truck, nondescript with a few streaks of rust on the side. Inside sat a man doing the crossword puzzle from the day’s Washington Post. Or at least that is what he appeared to be doing to the casual observer. In reality, he was watching the two side mirrors. He saw Hoffmann turn the corner. Hoffmann got into the passenger’s side, taking care to lock the truck door. He silently unlocked the wrist lock and passed the brief case behind him through the truck’s internal window into the main body of the truck. Schneider’s hands took the briefcase.
The inside of the truck was like a tiny, well-lit factory. Along one side of the truck’s wall was a table and standing beside the table were three men all wearing white cotton gloves. Schneider held a roll of 20 keys—all the keys, in fact, for all Locked Wrist cases made in the past 15 years. The army in its admirable quest for frugality had issued tenders for the locks and like all governments worldwide had not blinked an eye when the tender was won by the Chicago company of Neumann and Braun, a renowned locksmith company, a subsidiary of its German parent. That the bid was under half of the second lowest bidder raised no eyebrows; why should it?
The fifth key opened the two peripheral locks.
Schneider removed the folder, passing it to the team. The first man in the team removed all the pages and then passed each page to the center man, who placed the sheet under a mechanical apparatus that looked like a huge black steel spider. The center man pressed a button and a flash of light indicated a photograph had been taken. Then third man took the sheet from the second man and reattached it to the original folder. The entire process took under five minutes. The case was passed back by Schneider to Hoffmann.
While the photographing was being done, Hoffmann chatted to the driver, secure in the knowledge that he was legally on German soil. Any inquisitive policeman who happened to wander by and ask unwanted questions would have first been told that Hoffmann was simply enjoying a chat with his brother-in-law. If that failed, Schneider would have then appeared and threatened fire and brimstone. True, Hoffmann would have to have been repatriated to Germany but better this than facing a firing squad. In any event, no policeman appeared and Hoffman left the truck and walked to the street behind the Willard.
Hoffman angrily knocked on the rear door of the Packard; Jones started.
“What the fuck are you doing Jones; who the hell is this woman?”
Jones started to splutter.
Smoothly, Louise said, “Captain, it was my fault; you see I asked this gentleman for help and…”
“Out!” Hoffmann commanded.
“What the fuck were you thinking Jones?” Hoffmann asked on the drive back to the archive.
Jones smiled weakly and turned for an instant, “You were right captain—I did get lucky.”
Hoffmann relaxed and laughed, “You fucking lucky dog, she looked like a Hollywood movie star. You have to tell me your secrets.”
Actually, there was no time to tell any secrets as Jones was transferred two weeks later to Bataan in the Philippines.
“You will like it,” said his CO, “It’s just like Mississippi weather.”
The rust-streaked truck returned to the Germany embassy. The rear of the truck opened and the men emerged.
“Get the film developed,” Schneider said, somewhat needlessly.
The camera operator nodded.
After her “lucky escape,” Louise walked to the front of the Willard and entered, slowly walking to the bar she knew so well. She could feel some of Jones’s milk starting to run down the inside of upper thigh; she always loved this feeling. It made her feel so slutty and so alive. She made her way to the bar and sat down, easily crossing her now well-lubricated legs.
“A glass of champagne, please Peter.”
“Sure thing, Louise,” said the smiling barman who was thrilled to be on first names with a woman like Louise.
“Now Peter, there is no need to tell me again the stories of President Grant sitting here at the bar and in the lobby, and how the vernacular “lobbyist” was coined by Grant’s visitations here,” she frowned in mock disapproval.
Peter looked like a little boy who had been discovered wetting his bed.
“Oh, Peter, don’t look like that. They are wonderful stories, and I am sure they make a lot of luck for you with the officers’ wives and mistresses, but remember you told me them all before.”
At this moment an Army colonel sauntered over to the bar, “Hey, barman, gimme two fingers of Jack, and give this lady a drink while you’re at it.”
No “please,” just a command from God to a peon.
“So, honey, you here on your own or what?”
“No, colonel, I’m with someone, but thank you for asking.” The quiet sarcasm was missed by God.
“Whoa, that’s too bad honey, ‘cos I could show you a real good time.
“Say, barman, where are the phone booths in this dump; I got to get me some action for tonight?”
Peter politely pointed and God left.
Louise paid for her drink, giving Peter a large tip.
“See you later, Louise.”
Louise left and had the doorman hail her a cab to the small bookstore called Boyles, which was down the street from the embassy. Louise wasn’t sure if it was habit or just tradecraft that made her do this, but she always walked the wrong way for a minute and then suddenly turned looking for any tense missteps.
Like all men experienced with women, Schneider had trimmed his fingernails so there was no nail extending at all on any finger—“nothing to irritate or hurt any female delicacies,” he smiled, thinking to himself. He also checked his chin and lips—not the slightest sign of stubble; Louise did so love his mouth while lying on his desk, legs wide, wide apart. Sometimes she would let her legs dangle, while other times she would hug her knees, all depending on her mood.
In the back of the taxi, Louise had mopped up the excesses of Jones that had been slowly dribbling down her leg. It was one thing to excite Schneider, it was another thing to be sloppy for her “second.”
Schneider was smoking a cigar when Louise entered. By his relaxed demeanor, it was clear the mission was a complete success. Schneider rose and bowed slightly, then quietly applauded, “Perfect. You were perfect, my dear.”