Sex Gone Horribly Wrong

Coleman Banks placed two hard-poached eggs on an unbuttered piece of lightly toasted multi-grain bread. He shook on salt, pressed on the top piece of toast spread with peanut butter both sides, finished his milk and ate his breakfast standing up, watching the clock.

Sometimes the filling was a sliced sausage, a fillet of leftover baked fish or a chunk of banana cake.

Coleman, an intelligent guy, knew he ought to shop better or live with a cook.

It was raining. Well it was winter nudging into spring. He would walk the mile to the office if fine or catch the 8:25 if the weather was bad or looked threatening.

Out on the street the specialist in 'Security Adjustment' whatever that was, watched the approaching bus when he remembered the ceiling mounted TV in the bedroom was left on. Another reminder he really needed to be living with an efficient person to attend to such things as switching off the TV that had been going all night. He decided to ignore his mistake knowing that mistakes in his line of work could be deadly.

He boarded the red 8:25 oblong box on wheels that was packed with workers like cattle going to slaughter, er to market.

Then he saw her.

Blonde of undeterminable body shape hidden in the thick rust-red coat she last wore when under surveillance. She was back on to him.

Good.

Coleman squeezed past an asthmatic and an effeminate weasel (field training had taught Coleman to instantly identify allies, foes and those in between) until he was pressing lightly against her.

If it weren't for that thick coat she might have felt his growing erection lining up just below her anus.

It would only be fractionally below that spot actually, er probably. He was taller but she appeared to have long legs.

The bus jolted and upper bodies of those standing touched. Coleman took the opportunity to breath hotly into Madam X's right ear.

She palmed more hair over that ear.

Damn he'd eaten eggs and peanut butter and had forgotten to clean his teeth. Perhaps he should be living with a dentist's assistant? Could this woman smell with her ears?

Coleman pondered that and wondered if he should take her in for questioning?

He knew to call her madam because gloveless she held the overhead strap, provided by law for the safety of standing passengers, to reveal engagement and wedding rings.

The bus driver accelerated and Madam X (so named after his favourite target of a busty cardboard cut-out at the pistol target range where he attended monthly prescribed practice) she came back beautifully on to his erection.

She didn't apologize or even wheeze a satisfied "Oooh." Cattle crowded passengers never did because it would mean apologizing for most of their journey.

Coleman bent forward to smell today's perfume. As he did so, she reached up and parted her goldilocks to scratch her neck, just as he was about to inhale over that spot.

He smelt nail polish, or at least he thought he did. Mixed odours of passenger's unwashed flesh, hair spray and flatulence circulated efficiently through the bus. Oh and foot odour, egg-breath and expensive fragrances and cheap scent should be added to that list. But he thought honing in to within one eighth of an inch from the skin ought to give him the chance of perfect savouring of today's perfume.

Coleman, being in a frontline field unit, received compulsory perfume identification training once a month. Some senior civil servant who probably last had sex thirty years earlier, had decreed the models for male perfume testing must be male. Little wonder the service had a frightfully difficult job of recruiting males. The same stupid asshole had decreed female operatives could only test their capacity for perfume identification on females and as a result, the service had a ratio of lesbians out of all proportion to other Government departments apart from the Navy and Women's Prisons.

Coleman aimed his nose at her neck again and only just avoided being poked in the eye as Madam X reached up to recover that part of her neck from an abundant supply of hair, probably all hers. He straightened and pushed hair back over this thinning crown, known in the service as the executioner's target spot.

This was the 12th time Coleman had kept Madam X under close surveillance. There was something about her, apart from her blonde hair, that had raised his suspicion that she might have considerable sex appeal. He craftily reported her suspicious behaviour and was assigned to maintain a watching brief and to tail her if felt necessary.

He felt it necessary to tail her and, without thinking, right at that moment pushed into her but did so without the bus jolting and she turned an eyed him and whispered, "Please be discreet."

She had grey eyes, a cute nose and wide mouth made for kissing. It was the first time she'd spoken to him and she had a foreign accent.

Christ a Russian! Well perhaps.

"Sorry," he smiled, and that was the first time he'd spoken to her.

She looked alarmed.

Coleman realized he'd breached rush-hour etiquette in cattle-transport by apologizing.

"Um sorry for apologizing," he said, sounding like a buffoon out of Shakespeare.

"That's okay. Having you behind me for an early morning ride makes my day. I can always tell it's you because of where your erection comes to rest."

Eh?

She said no more and he couldn't think of anything to say. This was an encounter not covered in the department's manual.

Damn, he's missed his stop.

He gave the base of her right-hand ass cheek a friendly squeeze and left the bus to walk back in the rain.

Coleman spent the day in the office because it was raining. The targets he was after were inactive in inclement weather and so he spent his time monitoring the most insidious threat of all to National Security, Internet dating sites.

He kept thinking about Madam X and that kept him hard all day. Females in the office eyed his tent and laughed whenever he left his desk. For once he was glad they were all lesbians. Those ladies spent much of the day smelling each others perfume, top and bottom levels.

It was wet again next day. Well the city had had its winter fine day almost six weeks ago.

Coleman edged past a pensioner, a preggy who probably didn't yet know she was pregnant, and a gay before he could park into the behind er behind Madam X.

God this was suspicious. Madam X today wriggled her ass until she had him pressing into a position more comfortable for her and she sighed.

Coleman made a notebook entry: '19th. Suspect gives impression she doesn't do anal.'

There was a big series of jolts as the bus went over road works to repair road works completed at that same spot a week ago.

Madam X tottered on her high heels and with the speed of lightening and giving her quite a shock, Coleman grabbed her nearest tit and gave it a squeeze, or so he thought because there was nothing much to feel over that fucking thick coat.

"You saved me from falling," she trilled theatrically and pressed his hand against where he was squeezing, making Coleman think that was a mistake; he should have rescued her by grabbing her pussy.

The 40-year old's erection had become painfully hard and for a moment he thought it was tearing through her coat but then realised the noise came from a guy turning the page of his newspaper.

"Oooh," she purred.

Good gracious, she was communicating. According to detailed description on page 1032 of the operative's Field Manual the female's use of an explicit "Oooh" meant only one thing: she was being explicit...

Oh yes, page 1033 had been removed because it was deemed obscene. The writer wasn't executed but suffered a woeful fate. He was assigned to monitoring female toilets to prevent excessive use of paper and now faced 27 paternity suits.

Madam X rode up and down against the tip of his erection with every movement of the bus and as Coleman's blood supply pumped extra blood to his face and crotch he realized the woman's sly movements were out of sync with the movements of the bus chassis; that actually she was getting him off.

He began to pull away but too late, he exploded.

He gave her ass the now customary squeeze and weakly alighted at the correct stop and walked into Freedom Towers thinking spring must be in the air because many oncoming women had been smiling at him.

Women in the office laughed as he entered and the Queen Lesbian, Mrs Smith, guided him into an interview office saying he'd come coming to the office.

Eh?

"Just look at your pants," she clucked. "You've have a massive ejaculation. Please remove your pants."

She held them up and he saw the huge circle of wetness centred at mid-zip level.

"Please don't tell anyone," he whimpered.

She nodded her head sadly and said, "It's too late. All the women in our division saw the mess you were in and now everyone in the entire building will know. Was your bus tightly packed?"

"Um no," he lied. "I saw a billboard of a big-tit blonde sucking a lollipop."

"Oh that saucy one," smiled Mrs Smith. "I'd give anything to spend a night with her."

"Me too."

She glared at Coleman and snapped, "She's obviously gay you dummy."

Mrs Smith took his pants away to be dry cleaned by staff in the Disguise sub-section and returned with astonishing news.

"You are now being acclaimed as the most prolific ejaculator in the entire building, um male ejaculator. Security footage of you arriving at the office has been analysed and it suggests to produce a flood mark of that extent would have required the equivalent of quarter a tea cup of semen."

Coleman felt his chest swell and he smiled at Mrs Smith but she ignored his manly overture.

"We girls have decided to verify that finding. We'll give you an hour to recuperate to full charge and here is the latest Lesbian Annual to peruse. Some of the cunt stretching has to be seen to believe. Then two of us will attempt to jerk you to fill a tea cup. All the women in the building are coming here to watch."

Coleman felt his balls slithering up deep into his body in fright.

He had no option but to allow the test to be carried out after finding he was stymied, unable to reach by gun cabinet because of the crowd packing the office.

The two masturbators had difficulty getting him up but when women facing him began baring their breasts and jiggling them, Coleman rose to the occasion magnificently.

He produced an eighth of a cup to the delight of the women who agreed that most men who had the crazy idea they produced a pint of a stuff, whereas under test most actually produced less than a teaspoonful. Coleman immediately became known throughout the building as Eighth Cup Coleman Banks. He would have been humiliated but learned with pleasure that (allegedly) only females would know what that nickname meant.

From that moment Coleman developed a permanent swagger.

Coleman boarded the bus next morning after munching a sardine toasted sandwich. It was meant to be baked beans but he set the microwave on high for two long and they exploded and spattered into pulp around the insides of the microwave. That disaster added to a long history of mishaps and reinforced his growing suspicion he had some issues to address as a cook.

The bus was overfull as usual and he squeezed past a guy with clap judging by his ashamed look, a woman with tits at her waist and a guy with belly fat down almost to his knees and reached Madam X who stood facing him, eyeing him gravely.

"It's my turn this morning Eighth Cup Coleman Banks."

"Eh?"

"The whole city knows about it. My husband looks surprised if he ejaculates enough to cover one fingernail. He masturbates because he's turned gay."

"Oh."

"I'm so pleased you don't mind sharing your semen with me. But it's my turn this morning. Stand closer and furtively finger me off."

The furtively fingering fearless fucker did what was asked of him because he was immoral and used to doing what women told him to do.

He slid a hand down to find the lower buttons of her thick rust-red coat were undone. She'd obviously hitched up her dress and wasn't wearing panties.

"Use the finger with the signet ring," she said.

Coleman grinned because the ring was department issue, bearing the code for ID in case he was killed during an operation anywhere in the world tracking down fiends who were falsely on Government benefits. Invariably he'd have orders to shoot on site, er on sight. Many on disability benefits were eliminated when water-skiing at the French Riviera or cycling in the Italian Alps. Some were found much closer at home, including two females he eliminated who were coming home first and second in the women's division of the London Marathon.

Madam X was already wet and the suction almost pulled the ring off his finger despite being pinned into the bone to prevent accidental dislodgement but of course this situation had not been envisaged. Fortunately the pin held.

Well what a great way to warm a finger on a cool morning.

Coleman could hear the squelching but no one appeared to notice, probably assuming it was people with moist armpits swinging on the overhead hand safety straps.

Her pussy lips were now inflated and she was beginning to pant when he had to withdraw his hand and wipe it fingers on her coat because his stop was nigh.

"Oh god, you can't leave me," Madam X wailed. "Not like this."

A guy getting off the bus with Coleman said, "Cor you're lucky mate. My old woman constantly urges me to leave her."

Coleman left for Chile that afternoon on the trail of woman who'd over the years falsely claimed the equivalent of $US250,000 in pretending she was unable to walk or do any physical activity. After her fraud had been exposed she'd refused to pay back the money and after three refusals was placed on the hit list under official policy 'three strikes and you're out'.

After two weeks of searching, Coleman found the bitch high in the Andes performing sex hanging from a rope on a rock face by her bent knees and supporting the guy banging her while being filmed for a blue movie. The fatal quickly evaporating dart he shot into her butt beside a patch of drying semen was encouragingly fatal. The inquest finding was, 'Death caused by high altitude acute sickness'.

Regrettably Coleman, who was no mountaineer, suffered high altitude acute sickness and lay poorly in hospital for several days until a nurse, with big tits and in the know, bent over him and gave him a drink of brandy before having her way with him. His sudden recovery astonished doctors who'd been concerned about his near comatose condition.

Back in his own country and filling in time reading or playing darts until receiving an assignment, Coleman caught the 8:25.

He pushed between five schoolgirls and two of them took the opportunity to grab his dick that they would have been surprised to have found erect in anticipation.

Madam X faced him and gritted, "You bastard. You left me hanging eight days ago, about to ejaculate."

"Sorry we came to my stop too quickly. Perhaps we didn't start soon enough?"

"Well your punishment is to fuck me."

"I-I'm not very good at doing it standing up."

She laughed and called him a fool and invited him to visit her where she lived. She gave him her card and, aha, it was the residence of a high respected foreign ambassador to the UK in the grounds of the fortified Embassy compound. Embassies were internally recognized as the breeding ground for spies and that explained explain why so much sex went on in those establishments.

"What do you do at the ambassador's home," he asked, not expecting her to admit she was a spy but the reply did surprise him.

"I'm the ambassador's wife. We met when he was stationed in South Africa."

"Ah so you are South African?"

"No South Australian."

The mystery was deepening.

"Could we meet somewhere else? I have no desire to have your husband looking on."

"Yes of course. Where do you suggest?"

"Let's use my apartment."

"Okay may I stay the night?"

"Yes of course I could meet you off the 21:23 at stop 73. Um that raises a point. Why do you catch the 8:25 when you live in your embassy compound that is located opposite a local shopping strip?"

"You appear to be well-informed about our embassy," she said suspiciously. "Answering your question, I go each morning to a Russian bakery to get Russian bread. The stuff you guys eat here is too wholesome for us."

He didn't believe her.

She opened a shoulder bag and he saw two loaves of unappetising-looking bread.

He believed her and asked her name.

"Ella Komsomolsk. I was Ella Koala before marriage."

Well that checked out. The ambassador was Dmitry Komsomolsk.

"I can leave tonight without raising suspicion. My husband will be in the cellar entertaining his boyfriend. I can bribe the guards at the gate with Coke imported from North America."

"Don't you mean cocaine from Colombia?"

"Nah Coca-Cola we import direct from North Carolina."

It was decided to meet outside the embassy at 9:00 that night

The rendezvous with Ella went like clockwork apart from all the lights at the compound switching on when she'd kneed both guards when they refused to allow her through the gates because she'd attempted to palm them off with diet Coke whereas they were addicted to Classic.

Shots were fired within the compound indiscriminately and a distress rocket burst 500 ft above the compound to alert the American FBI and British MI6 that something was up at 32 Wimpole Street.

Two mouth-foaming security dogs began chasing the fleeing Ella.

Coleman calmly pulled out his compact Jericho 941 pistol and dispatched both dogs ruthlessly but had to fire five times before he got them both, the last through the throat as it was leaping for his throat, thus giving him a clean shot at very close range.

Coleman grabbed Ella, there being no time to kiss, and they boarded a taxi, stopped at a pedestrian crossing, to the surprise of a couple already inside. They made a perfect getaway because no one had emerged from the compound to watch them melt into the darkness of a wet London night.

When Coleman and Ella began talking in Russia the other couple called to the driver to stop and fled.

"I'll pay their fare," called the charitable Coleman.

"Where to Gov?"

Coleman gave his home address.

Rather than bang the 36-year old Ella as soon as the entered his flat, Coleman went to his computer and sent an untraceable email to the embassy stating: 'The wife of the Ambassador Dmitry Komsomolsk had been kidnapped by an Israeli-trained band of Chechnya sympathisers from the West as an act of Social Justice and she will be inducted into a harem somewhere in the Middle East. Signed by General D. Smith, head of Counter Terrorism Group 5001 of Chechnya Sympathisers, Irish Underground Division.'

Ella read it.

"But why, what good is that?" she asked as Coleman sent off the email.

"It will greatly upset your husband knowing he'll be ridiculed for having you snatched under his nose. He'll call off the search for us and inform his superiors you ran away with your lover, leaving him very distressed."

"But I told you he doesn't care for my snatch these days."

"Ah but I have the great desire to..."

The door to the flat burst open.

"Pluff, pluff."

Two shots from pistols with silencers killed Ella and Agent Coleman who was assassinated on the orders of Coleman's commanding officer for risking creating an International Incident by working up a plan to steal the ambassador's wife to have his way with her for selfish gratification.

One of the masked assassins said, "Hey look Jeff, the guy has an erection."

"Oh this is Eighth Cup Coleman, who possessed the most prolific firing weapon in the service."

"Pluff, pluff."

Two shots from pistols with silencers killed the two assassins so there would be no witnesses.