Mystery Girl

If I should have felt any guilt about fucking Smith's wife, or Panjic's for that matter, then I have to confess that I never gave it a thought. I'd always had a pretty active and lucid imagination as journalists tend to do, but my time with the beautiful and talented Helen was beyond all my expectations.

We took turns to caress one another taking time to get to know one another's bodies, Helen getting the hang of mine quicker than I did hers, but maybe that wasn't such a bad thing.

"I hope you're into oral," she gasped when she couldn't take any more of the attention I was paying to her fantastic breasts, wondering why on earth my fantasies had previously mostly involved big titted girls.

It's time lover," Helen squealed some time later after I'd sucked and munched her to two orgasms and she'd returned the favour, but carefully kept me just short of boiling point, the point I reached not so very long afterwards with a roar as I spewed my hot seed deep into her.

"Wow lover, that was the best sex I've ever had," she told me as we both lay there exhausted, basking in our after sex state of complete relaxation.

Ok, that's maybe not exactly what she said, but I'm a journalist so I'm allowed a bit of license.

"What now?" I asked, stroking her soft thigh, wondering how quickly I could get it up again.

"You're British aren't you?" She asked me.

"Sure am," I answered puzzled at her asking the pretty obvious.

"Don't suppose you're into anal sex then?"

"Not really," I admitted. "In my experience that's more of an American thing."

"Mine to," she agreed. "Pity really, but never mind. Let's see what else we can get up to."

And get up to other things we surely did, until I was forced to call a truce, having run out of both energy and just about everything else as well. Even then she had me stroking her breasts again and gently tweaking her nipples, hoping that she wouldn't be expecting me to try and get it up again any time soon.

"Time for a shower," Helen eventually suggested, shooting me a knowing look, and it suddenly came flowing back to me that someone, somewhere was, or maybe would be watching and reviewing what we'd been doing for the last hour or so.

Not sure how I felt about that!

"Right," she started in, once we were both stood under the hot water pouring down from the showerhead. "There's a camera trained on us, but if we keep our voices low, then they can't pick up what we're saying while we've got the water running."

"Right," I agreed, gulping somewhat as Helen began to lather me up.

"Act natural," she instructed me, and I nodded my understanding, hardly being able to act any more natural than I was, my body reacting extremely naturally to what she was doing to me.

"Like this?" I asked her, gathering some soapiness in my hands and smoothing it sensually down her body, starting from her shoulders, down over the swell of her lovely firm breasts, then further down over the curve of her slim but still ample hips. My hands ended up with one cupping each of her ass cheeks and I pulled her luscious body hard up against mine.

"I think you're getting the hang of it," Helen laughed, sliding her soapy slippery body back and forward against mine. "But let's get down to business before the hot water runs out."

My protestations that hot water doesn't generally run out in posh hotels was met with a saucy laugh from the naked temptress in my arms, but a reminder that though things may have moved on, this was still eastern Europe.

"We haven't got time to talk in any detail about politics tonight," she surprised me with. "This evening's all about conning my husband into thinking you were a casual pick-up in the bar, and that my only interest in you is to get you to give me a good fucking."

"So how did I do?" I asked, and yes I confess to having a smile on my face.

"Outstanding. Wonderful thank you," Helen smiled at me, and I'm sorry if I've opted for another bit of journalistic licence there again.

"So that is what the drink thing in the bar was about was it," I commented, absently, more interested in how beautifully flat and toned her bare tummy felt. "But how will your husband know? Won't he be pissed off?"

"Of course not," Helen chuckled, taking my left hand and moving it up to her breast. "This is his permanent hotel room. They're his cameras. He's probably watching us now the pig, and wanking himself off.

"What!"

"I'm not kidding. The useless bastard can hardly get it up himself and gets his kicks out of watching me with other men."

"Any man?"

"No. At least he's selective. He gives me to the President from time to time to keep him sweet, but the stories that I'm fucking half the Government are nonsense. It's always visiting foreigners. Businessmen, journalists like you or the occasional tourist, and of course we have to end up at this hotel. He owns it and keeps this room vacant more or less just for this purpose."

"That's awful," I grunted. Yes grunted, damn well grunted. You try speaking normal like, when a woman, especially one like Helen, is doing her best to make sure your cock is spotlessly clean.

"Not always," Helen giggled mischievously, giving my cock an extra strong squeeze. "But with this performance he'll be pleading with me to see you again, so tomorrow night we can go for dinner somewhere away from his damn cameras and talk seriously."

"And afterwards?"

"Back here of course. Is that a problem?"

"No problem at all," I assured her. In fact why don't we ... Oh fuck!"

She was right of course, this was Eastern Europe and at that moment the water went stone cold. Cold? It was bloody well freezing, and with a squeal Helen leapt out of the shower, grabbed a towel and ran back into the bedroom.

Nice ass!

That was the end of any serious discourse and I awoke the next morning late, knackered, sore in places I didn't know I had, happy and contented and convinced that I had morphed into some Greek God of sexuality.

I also woke up alone.

-----

High as a kite and I hadn't had a drink and am not at all into drugs, and as arranged I contacted Smith on the phone they'd supplied that they assured me was scrambled. It was a contact that changed everything and bought me back tumbling to earth.

"Smith?" I demanded when the other end picked up, having been schooled to keep the contact short."

"He's dead," came the bone chilling reply. "Shot through the head last night at close quarters. Let Helen know as soon as possible as this changes everything, and then get the hell out of there."

"Hang on. What do you mean? How did ..."

No use. No point in continuing. The line had been cut, and as I suspected my attempts to remake the connection were fruitless.

-----

It was approaching midday and we had made an arrangement to meet up at a local brasserie type place just down from the hotel that I'd woken up in. That seemed the quickest way to talk to Helen, so I had a quick and much less memorable shower, got dressed and made my way there, grateful that Helen had got my clothes off the previous evening before we'd got down to serious business and that they weren't therefore too crumpled.

I'd been stunned by the news about Smith, but couldn't get the image of Helen in the nude out of my mind, so it was a pretty confused person who walked up to her, as she sat there at a table waiting for me, a picture of beauty in her tight jeans and casual top.

"Hi gorgeous, "she greeted me with a smile that could have melted the ice cap in half the time that global warming was taking.

"Hi yourself," I threw back at her, giving her a kiss on the cheek, that visibly made every man in the place groan in envy, even I'm sure the gay couple in the corner. "I've got some unpleasant news for you I'm afraid."

"What's up? Your cock too sore for another session?" Helen laughed, sending the four guys on the table nearest us into fits of coughing.

"No Helen," was my reply, hoping to get the unpleasantness over and hoping for a repeat of our previous encounter, and carried on to tell her the news of the unfortunate Smith's demise.

Her reaction wasn't what I expected.

I thought she might possibly be dismissive, or possibly burst into tears, but all she did was sit there thoughtfully ignoring me completely.

"Are you Ok?" I asked at last, hesitantly.

"Yes, never better," Helen replied to my astonishment. "Have you got your passport with you?"

"In my pocket."

"Money? Credit cards?"

"Both."

"There's a flight out to Paris in forty minutes and you can get a connection to London from there. If you grab a taxi quick then you should make it. Whatever you do, don't stop at your hotel to pick up your luggage. In fact don't stop for anything."

"Why?" I stammered.

"You haven't got time," Helen growled. "Get going."

"But ..."

"No buts. Get your ass moving," she urged me, standing and moving towards the door.

"Will I see you again?" I pleaded.

"Pretty unlikely," she replied looking back over her shoulder. "But thanks for last night. Thanks a lot."

-----

It was while I was on the flight bound for Paris that the news broke, but of course I didn't discover that until after we had landed.

At first it was just a report that an Eastern European businessman had been murdered, but that was quickly corrected to a prominent politician. But it was only when it became clear that it was his wife that had shot him dead that newshounds around the world really started to take notice. Then when the rumour went round that the wife in question was no other than the mysterious Mrs Pjanic, then the whole place went crazy.

Two days of speculation and total invention and then the whole matter was overtaken by matters of even greater magnitude.

'Riots breaking out', read the headlines.

'Army takes to the streets.'

'Russian intervention likely.'

'American Mediterranean fleet put on red alert."

'Prime Minister gives backing to American allies.'

'Rebel forces oust army from the capital.'

'Government flee the country.'

'Putin warns the west not to interfere.'

'United Nations secretary reports probable agreement among the superpowers.'

And then right there, tucked away in the middle pages, the only report that bought tears to my eyes.

'Our correspondent confirms that Mrs Helen Pjanic, wife of the late Edin Pjanic was executed last Friday by a firing squad.'

------

Life for the next two years went on much as before, except that for me, much of the colour that had seemed to be there had faded.

I'd been used, but for the life of me I couldn't quite understand how, or indeed why. The best I could make of it was that there had been some grand plan, but that Smith's murder had somehow scuppered it. Unquestionably after a shaky start the new government over there had got it's act in order, and had managed to align itself closer to the west without upsetting its huge neighbour to the east, and that was no mean feat.

But why did she have to die?

Many, hundreds and maybe even thousands had perished in the street fighting and mayhem that took place during those frightful weeks.

But why her?

Why Helen?

How could anyone in their right mind execute such a beautiful creature as Helen?

I tried to console myself with the hope that it had been quick and painless.

I tried to investigate into Helen's background but was soon warned off by 'them', reminding me that I was still liable to the strict conditions of the official secrets act.

Just when I felt that maybe I was beginning to get over it and my life returning to normal, I found myself wandering down a street in downtown New York, planning in my mind what I was going to ask the somewhat controversial Senator that I was due to interview the next day.

Not sure what made me stop at the hot dog stand that night as I normally don't particularly like the things. Not sure for that matter what made me turn round when I heard some guy behind me ask someone else a question.

Maybe it was the clipped British accent?

"Oh dear!" He sighed when he realised that I'd recognised him.

"What are you doing here?" I gasped in surprise. "You're dead!"

"Not quite," he, the man I knew as John Smith replied nonchalantly.

"They told me you'd been shot."

"They may have exaggerated somewhat old chap," the man, whoever he really was replied, at least having the decency to look a little embarrassed.

"What the hell are you?" I demanded angrily. "A spy? MI6 or something."

"Five actually," he corrected me. "I trust we can still rely on your discretion?"

"Or what?" I retorted, even though my anger was dissolving away under his unflustered manner. "Maybe you'll have me shot?"

"We probably wouldn't, but the CIA just might," he grinned, glancing over my left shoulder, and I fell for it. I fell for the oldest trick in the book and spun round to check who it was behind me.

But it wasn't a trick at all!

"Long time no see," said the most beautiful American girl in the whole world. "How have you been?"

"You're CIA?"

"Maybe, but you can still call me Helen," she grinned, taking Smith's arm, the pair of them making to walk off into the crowded street.

"But wait," I called out, desperate to find out more.

"Shhh!" Helen smiled, looking back towards me as they strolled off, and putting her forefinger to her lovely lips. "Remember ... Discretion, and thanks for that wonderful evening. I'll never forget it."

-----

Five months later I got a rather fancy embossed invitation through the post to an obviously pretty fancy wedding over the water in Ohio.

The names of the couple getting married meant absolutely nothing to me, but the wording made interesting reading.

'You are invited by General and Mrs John Marshal to celebrate the wedding of their daughter Mary Jane, to the honourable Michael Harding MC, son of Lord and Lady Harold Harding MBE.

Blah blah blah etc.

I read it with mounting interest.

I thought I might go.

I guess I had to really. The story they'd spun me had obviously been a total invention and I might find out what really happened, and what they were really setting me up for.

Besides, though I doubted it, maybe Helen's new husband might just be as accommodating as her previous one had been, and that would make the trip to Ohio well worth it!

+++++++++++++++

The end