My Only Talent Ch. 37

"My pet, I am almost ready to come, and when I do, it is going to be in your lovely mouth. I expect you to suck me dry and swallow every drop, making me feel respected and cared for!"

She bobbed her head and cried out "Yes, Master!" and now I knew my upcoming product release would be a success.

Soon the gusher arrived, and I rushed around the bed. Her earlier efforts proved to be a good estimator of her considerable talents, as she sucked me even more enthusiastically and as completely as I had demanded.

There is nothing like an English Summer. I released her from the scarves and we cuddled on the bed. She naturally began toying with my chest and soon noticed the direct connection between tweaking my nipples and making my dick jump.

She smiled and said teasingly, "My goodness Master, we sure have sensitive nipples, don't we?"

I heard a little sneaky Suzie emerging from her broad contentment signal. I had planned to just relax and enjoy her ministrations to my chest, but I turned my head toward the edge of the bed and was suddenly looking at a big black face with reddish yellow eyes and black pupils, and a very impressive set of teeth glaring at me from about a foot away. Mallory the military Malinois had released herself from her kennel during our noisy little fuck fest, without either of us noticing it. I heard my grandmother's voice, saying "When you train a dog, you are the alpha male, and you have to act like it."

There wasn't much difference between freezing in place and staring her down, so I told myself that was what I was doing. We stared across the twelve-inch gap for what seemed like a long time, and Mallory must have concluded that I had not harmed Summer. She looked away, held her tail up, and then curled up primly at the foot of the bed.

Summer giggled. "My word, Robbie, you actually have the Mallory seal of approval! I would not have believed it if I hadn't seen it myself. I guess we are both your little bitches now, Master. I hope you can handle us both." That sneaky Suzie emerged again.

I tried to laugh in an appropriately masterful way. "SHE is already well trained, but YOU have just begun your training. But you do show some promise. I am sure I can keep you both in line."

Summer giggled softly, pulled the comforter up over us, and snuggled against me.

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Dwight left the hospital dressed as a female nurse, complete with makeup and padding to enhance his bust and hips, and some little rocks in his moderate heels to modify his gait. He had a route mapped out to escape most cameras, and he ducked and turned his head to avoid having the others capture his facial image. He walked a circuitous route to St. Pancras station and boarded with a business premier ticket, so he could catch the available Eurostar train when he arrived and get on at the last minute. The British passport read Christine Mellette Cowan, and her credentials said she was a registered nurse employed by an air ambulance service.

The train went all the way to Brussels, about a two-hour trip. He settled into a lounge seat and ordered a meal in his best female voice. This was his first meal of the day, and adrenaline reactions always made him hungry. He checked his phone for text messages, and finding no encoded alerts, relaxed for the first time today. But no sleep yet.

When the train arrived at Midi/Zuid he walked to the nearby shopping area and spent two hours wandering about and making sure he was not being followed. He took a taxi to Aviapartner and boarded a very ordinary looking Learjet 45. Lightly loaded and full of fuel, it could fly direct to Halifax. He would change identities in route. He was surprised to find he was going back to his original, actual birth name. He had been Dwight Ebert since he was first recruited at 14, before he went to MIT, and had used ten other names in the field.

Using his 'real' name now meant either he was finished at the agency, or he was going to be in a public facing role. Either way, his field days were over. Carmencita would not be marrying Dwight Ebert as she expected, but she would be happy that his risk profile would be much lower. Hopefully she would like life as Mrs. Alexander Walton.

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I woke up a little bit disoriented, then remembered I was at Summer's house. She was moving, but I pretended to still be asleep. She padded off to the bathroom, but she came back in just a few minutes. Curiously, she watched me sleep for a moment and then took two scarves from the bedposts and tied them up on the bed's canopy, just about midway between the head and foot of the bed. She slipped silently back into bed. I did my best to breathe evenly and seem to be asleep. She gently pulled the comforter down to expose my chest, and began to gently blow on my nipples.

My reaction was automatic and completely involuntary. I felt my dick stiffen and make a tent in the comforter, and I heard Summer launch a sneaky little Suzie signal when she saw it. She pulled the comforter off and began to kiss my nipples, licking and teasing them, and sending my cock rising even higher. Then she kept one hand on my nipples and engulfed my dick with her mouth, bringing me to full attention.

"I like that tent you made Robbie! I think it's time I went camping!"

She effortlessly swung her leg over me and impaled herself slowly. She was wet and burning hot. It felt like heaven on earth. She grabbed the two scarves she had prepared, one in each hand, and began to move like a big monkey swinging through the trees. A strong pink monkey with a prehensile pussy -- it grabbed me and gripped me incredibly, massaging and milking me mercilessly. All that work she had done climbing, moving hoses, and rescuing citizens had built her up into a fucking machine, literally. "Don't wait for me, Robbie. I want to feel it all hot and nasty inside me!"

Holding the scarves and moving herself to and fro with the bed's canopy over her head, she looked like a parachutist steering her descent by moving the shrouds of the chute. She was certainly able to make me shoot. I felt the tide rising and did not resist, and found my head turning left and right involuntarily as I felt my balls boil. I grunted and saw stars, and she gripped me even harder and I exploded up into her. It seemed to shoot out of me like hot oil and she grunted with me. She groaned and milked me and moved her hips in a circle like a controlled dance move. She had complete control of my dick, as if her pussy muscles had a mind of their own. Perhaps I had previously missed out on this female firefighter thing, but now I highly recommend it.

She could have easily kept kneading my breadstick until it began to rise again, but suddenly she stopped and laughed. I followed her eyes to the side of the bed and saw Mallory, with her leash in her mouth and both front paws on the bed, looking at me expectantly.

"Looks like you have been upgraded to primary dog walker, Robbie. Quite an honor."

"Isn't she reliable off lead?" I wondered.

"Perfectly, but our local constabulary can be very concrete thinkers. When I take her to town, they would love to harass me by issuing an off-leash violation notice. So, I have trained her to fetch the leash whenever we go out. We have to get going early this morning on prepping tonight's event, so while you walk her I will start my shower."

She giggled again and walked to the bathroom. I watched wistfully as her big beautiful ass disappeared around the corner, proud to know that she was carrying a bit of me inside her as she did.

She stuck her head back around the corner. "By the way, you needn't worry about the consequences of your hot deposit in my happy bank, as I am properly medicated to ensure that haploid does not become diploid." I didn't even know she was a biology major. She disappeared again into the bathroom.

I slipped on my pants, shirt, and shoes, finding it surprisingly cool, and took Mallory outside, off leash. Someone had used a skid steer, or whatever the English equivalent was, to blaze a running trail around what I presumed was the perimeter of the property. They had removed all the little trees and bushes on that course, and graded the path relatively flat. I followed the trail, asking Mallory to heel. She did, and responded to most of the hand signal commands my grandmother taught me, too. But when I tried to send her out, and turn her with gee and haw, she just looked at me uncomprehendingly. I now knew she had never been taught to herd stock, which is not surprising, and it made me wonder just exactly how she had been trained. She also seemed hesitant to do her business, which all our dogs were trained to do on command when the opportunity presented itself. Finally, I saw a little metal can, a scoop, and some poop bags on a chair on the back porch. Was this dog really that fastidious?

I grabbed the bags and she ran toward me and barked. She squatted and dropped a big one, looking very relieved. She watched, holding perfectly still, until I scooped it up in a bag and deposited it in the can.

Suddenly the memory of Suzanne picking up poop on the trail around Town Lake in Austin, and Ivor Greentree's reaction to the sight, pulled me up short for moment. Mallory barked happily, then squatted again and urinated primly on almost the same spot. What's up with that? She bounded toward me and did a perfect heel, sitting smartly at my left and looking me right in the eyes. "Good girl! Let's go see Summer."

She walked in lockstep with me to the back door of the house, and paused to wipe her feet on the mat before going through the door! I would sure like to know who trained this dog, and what for. How would I go about finding out?

Summer greeted me at door in her jeans and tee shirt that were normally worn under her very professional looking smock. She looked great, suffused with a peaceful glow that I hoped I could take some credit for. She hurried me into the shower, promising that she would make us brunch when we arrived at her 'prep kitchen', giving me another reason to hurry. My stomach growled, underscoring my hunger. She laughed. "You and Mallory are a lot alike."

She fed Mallory, which made me wonder when the morning meal would require Mallory to poop again. I tried to ask Summer about that, but the noise of the shower and her movement around the house made conversation impossible. I had a whole list of topics to cover on the drive today.

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Dwight found it strange to be traveling openly under his real name, which now seemed unreal to him. He had come a long way since the agency recruiters, his mom and dad, and his dad's old commanding officer, sat in their living room. His dad said it was like a recruiting visit from a Division 1 football coach. They had signed all sorts of non-disclosure agreements and after graduating from high school at 13, young Alex became known as Dwight, and began an intensive summer camp before enrolling at MIT.

Things had been busy. There had been 'summer camps' ever since then. The week that he was supposed to use take to make his way through Canada and back to DC would be the longest and most leisurely vacation he had had since that fateful day. What would happen when he got back? Would there be an exit interview or a new job?

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Summer drove towards the prep kitchen, and I was feeling talkative for a change. "Summer, I have to be honest and tell you that your ass is not as great as I thought it was going to be."

Her face fell and she gripped the wheel angrily.

"It's much, much better! I am enchanted."

She grinned, barely suppressing a wide smile.

I changed direction. "Is this another Okie party?"

She laughed. "That's OKS. Old King's Scholars. Yes, it is, but with some additional qualifications. The guy who threw the party last night was not OKS, but his wife is. He threw that party to try to get in with the crowd that is attending tonight's event. The OKS big donors -- either hugely wealthy alums or big donors who wish they were alums. People who give enough money to have fields, labs, buildings and entire schools named after them. Politicians, generals, admirals, captains of industry, media stars, and some minor royals. Much more demanding than last night's attendees. Both of my sick helpers will be recovered and on duty tonight, as will two other temps I use, and you. It's a tough crowd, but it pays well."

"You are OKS?"

"Technically, yes. I went to school there, and I graduated, but I was a day student because my father taught there. We never could have afforded it otherwise. I am a yeoman among royalty, especially with tonight's crowd. "

Now I wanted to know more about Mallory. "Who trained Mallory, and why is she so weird about doing her business outside?"

Summer looked worried. "I'm not sure how much I should say. I don't know that much. My husband was SAS, and Mallory was a parachute dog. But that's really all I know. I'm not supposed to talk about it, even after he is gone."

"We just fed her. What will she do when she needs to go again? It will be a long time until we get back."

"I'm glad to see you are concerned about her. She's funny. When I'm not home, she goes out of her doggie door and treks way out beyond my property to void, and then digs and covers it up completely. It's almost like she doesn't want to leave anything behind that could be used to track her back to my house. The doggie door is keyed to her chip, so it's quite secure, although anyone who tried to break in would get quite an awful surprise from Mallory."

It might not be almost like that, it might be exactly that. That would take a lot of work to train, and there had to be a good reason to do it. I would have to do some research.

When we reached the prep kitchen, it was a beehive of activity. Summer ran around like an orchestra conductor on Adderall, clearly under pressure to get things just right. She paused a moment and whipped up two quick but very fluffy omelets, using just the egg whites for hers and giving me three whole eggs plus the yolks from her two. She added what they call a 'banger' here to my plate, and retrieved two chocolate chip cookies from tin up high on the shelf and placed them on my plate, all while seemingly ignoring me and yelling at three different people about four different tasks. This woman may be perfect.

This party was 76 people, less than the 100 from last night, but with more courses of more elaborate food. One of her helpers tried to talk her out of Beef Wellington, as too much work and too high risk to make 76 at a time, but Summer was not amenable to changing her plan., especially since she had already submitted the menu and it was approved by the client.

Once she was satisfied that the early courses were on their way to completion under someone else's supervision, she carefully watched an older man in a chef's hat who poured out seven identical cakes and started them baking. Then he heated up some big pots, laid a thermometer next to each one, and started dissolving sugar in distilled water in them. Summer opened a refrigerator and brought out some half round steel molds that looked like melted metal misshapen animals and put them each on a white china plate on a worktable by themselves.

The man complained that he knew best how to make animals, and Summer patiently explained that he could do it anyway he wanted if he would go somewhere else and forget about being paid, but otherwise she would do it her way in her kitchen. He looked miffed and stood aside, looking on with a jaundiced eye and obviously hoping her plan would fail. It reminded me of one of those screaming and yelling cooking shows that Nora liked to watch on cable at her coop.

She watched all the thermometers, then took one pot and put it in a water bath to cool a little. When it was ready, she picked up the pot, stuck one of those wooden things you see in ads for honey in it, and proceeded to 'weave' strings of melted sugar back and forth across the cool molds. The sugar set in to a solid almost immediately, and she moved on to cover the other five molds in the same fashion. I thought I recognized some of them, but others I did not. The sugar animals were carefully removed from the molds and placed aside. Then they repeated the process again doing seven more. While the sugar animals were setting, 14 cakes were iced and decorated in various colors, then one sugar animal was carefully placed atop each on, and then each cake was placed in a sturdy looking white cake box.

When the last one was complete, Summer sighed tiredly and spoke in my ear, "One box for each boarding house, plus one for my crew when we are done. You and I will transport these, and they must arrive undamaged." The rest of the food was packed up in color coded and numbered boxes, and Summer directed the placement of each one into three cargo vans to be driven by her assistants.

We loaded the cake boxes into our van and she secured them with bungee cords to hooks built into the van's interior.

Our little caravan then headed out, Summer driving slowly and carefully to avoid jostling the cakes. When we arrived, the scene was even more frantic, with Summer directing everyone and everything in accordance with her vision. The cake van was parked in a shady spot and would be unloaded last. Two of the vans had big microwave ovens in them. When there was a break in my unloading chores, I peeked around the corner of the house. It was not quite as big as Abelard Peter's castle, but it was in the same class, and more modern. There was a huge stage, reminiscent of the one at the Circuit of the Americas, set up in the back garden, several acres worth, and a seating and dancing area set up in front of the stage. Several huge speaker and amp stacks and a lighting system foretold a concert and stage show in our future.

Guests were arriving and milling about in the front garden, and at the appointed time, they filed around a garden path to the tables set up between the house and the back garden. There were 13 tables, each with a big centerpiece that looked a lot like the sugar animals on the cakes. People were apparently seated by which boarding house they were in when the attended school.

A soup course emerged from the microwaves first, and with seven of us to run the food to the tables it was soon served. Appreciative nods and noises were made, so Summer was off to a good start. Two big boxes produced salads in bowls, which were also approved and consumed quickly. A quick serving of lime and mint sorbet cleared the sophisticated palette.

I was amazed to observe the guests while I ran food. This was the crowd the Tattler wrote about, in the flesh. It looked a lot like the English Gran Prix crowd that had accompanied 'El Supremo' and Abelard Peters to Austin in November. Very expensive clothing, especially the women, and major hair-dos. Plus, virtually every woman wore jewelry that would have required a phone call to the insurance company before leaving the house. I had noticed some police looking folks wandering the grounds and patrolling the car park. The conversations were muted and seemingly polite, which meant I probably didn't grok the undertones. I thought I recognized some of them -- maybe newsreaders on the BBC, or CNN, and a guy who sure looked like he belonged in the House of Lords.

Summer nearly twisted off from the tension as we did the final heating and served the beef, but it too was very well received. Summer grabbed me and rushed me out to help her with the cakes, while everyone else cleared the plates. There was apparently a proscribed order for placing the cakes -- youngest houses first and oldest houses last, and in a break from tradition that set tongues wagging, the boys and girls houses were done in strict chronological order, intermixed with each other. I was lucky enough to be able to associate the sugar animals on the cakes with the centerpieces, because otherwise I had no idea which cake belonged where. There was polite applause as each cake was placed, and when all were done, the senior OKS and each table was charged with cutting the cake. A few if the old guys cut the cheese, too. We managed to place them all without mishap, and Summer visibly relaxed.