The Seehofer Chronicles Vol. 02

"A department of the civil service, that officially doesn't exist, should you go looking for it. I help facilitate negotiations."

"How?"

"By sleeping with the right negotiator on the opposing side. How the hell do you think we influenced the French into accepting the idea of us joining the Common Market? We grease the wheels, to facilitate a deal."

"You sleep with politicians?" he asked incredulously after relenting to swivel in order to face the young woman.

"Sleep in the biblical sense... And with women as well. And it's often not politicians. It's the civil servants and advisors who guide the politicians who have to be won over."

"So they'll do anything for a fuck?"

"Most will... It's seldom necessary to extort and blackmail. The honey trap is the oldest ruse in the book. Don't you think I have a pretty honey trap?"

"You're pulling my pisser!" he half-heartedly exclaimed. Part of him only knew too well the power of sex.

"No, I'm not. But of course, it's all deniable. I just wanted to allay your fears."

"Allay my fears! You tell me you're a political whore and reckon that's supposed to make me feel happier?"

She sat up, allowing the bed sheet to fall. It caught briefly on the proud pink nipples of her breasts with their distinctive upward inclination before tumbling into her lap.

He thought it strange how different she appeared when not peering at her analytically through the lens of a camera. She seemed much softer, dare he say vulnerable, without the contrived contortions demanded by the photo shoot. She took the ID card from his hand and placed it back in her bag.

"I'll go if you like? If you're not happy at the thought of screwing me, I understand...," announced Becca wistfully.

Was it her demonstrative disappointment that bordered on hurt that swayed his opinion? Was it the tone of her voice that implied spiteful rejection and a condemning renouncement of his profession? Whatever it was, she made him feel like a reprehensible cad, a bigot who despised her for her honesty and frankness.

"Who's the most famous person you've... Entertained?" he asked suddenly.

Becca smiled and put a coy finger to her lips as she stared towards the ceiling contemplatively. "I'll give you my top three..." She beckoned him with a finger, her other finger tapping her ear, implying that she wished to whisper the answer.

Dutifully, he sat beside her and lowered his ear towards her lips. She held his head in both hands and accordingly whispered.

"Get out of here!" he shouted. "I thought the first one was a faggot! And are you telling me you've been screwed by-"

"No names out loud," she interjected. He whispered the second and third mentioned names back to her.

"The second one occurred during my first visit to Rome... A beautiful city... And the third is not only a talented actress; she has the ear of the Washington elite. She really was very inventive... So you'll be following in the cock-steps of some illustrious people..."

He little doubted that she was bullshitting him but he didn't care one jot. He fell upon her, pushing her back against the raised pillows. His mouth engulfed hers and he felt the reply of her lips and the tongue that probed his gaping mouth. He tasted the tobacco that pervaded her tongue, as she no doubt tasted his.

He had no idea how honoured he was to be the recipient of Miss Seehofer's kisses that were indicative of her sudden affection for the man. She found his lack of confidence utterly charming.

Yes, there was little point in trying to understand the workings of Rebecca Estelle Seehofer's concupiscent mind.

Becca's hands fervidly grappled with his polo neck sweater, tugging it up his back. It required a parting of tongues and his assistance to remove the garment. Their bodies collided, her pert breasts squeezed against his hairy chest. He revelled in the distinctly marked pressure applied by the firm twin orbs.

Dave leapt to his feet and tore at his beltless jeans. He went commando as he always did for a shoot. Despite his professionalism, he loved the way his confined cock would swell and chafe against the coarse fabric having been deprived of the insulation granted by cotton briefs.

Whilst Dave pulled off his jeans along with is sneakers, Becca assumed the posture of a stalking feline atop the bed, her head peering up as she prowled with gross intent upon her hands and knees.

Dave's cock swung in an unrestricted arc to thrust fully aroused and erect before him, jutting from his narrow torso and hips amid a thick mane of dark and coiled pubic hair. She noticed how tight his balls clung to his body, the scrotum with its overcoat of filamentous hair contracted with excitement and the promise of action.

She reached out and grabbed the bragging shaft, drawing him towards her. The cock felt deliciously warm and reassuringly masculine in her hand. He was a perfect length, no more than five inches long with a beautifully straight shank and a crimson plum of taut flesh.

She took him immediately between her "O" shaped heavily, made-up pink lips that had been touched up during his visit to collect his condoms. Her slick tongue rimmed around his glans, teasing the sensitive underside in the cleft where the frenulum ligament lay exposed by the stretched foreskin. He gasped and flinched when her tongue poked him in the eye, bringing forth that unique sensation, a sensual amalgam of pain and arousal.

It was when she sucked him into the depths of her mouth that he grabbed the back of her head and improvised a ponytail from her soft blonde hair in an effort to establish a handhold. She easily swallowed him past the gagging point into her throat and there she paused.

She feigned a choking sound that she knew enflamed a man's desires and released him with a copious amount of spittle coating his cock. Thrice more she took him in her throat after tonguing his plum and wanking his shaft with her hand. After five minutes of oral supplication, she instinctively sensed that any more stimulation would have resulted in his not-so-premature ejaculation in her mouth.

"Condom..." Becca issued the word as an order.

The sheath was in his hand and she elected to fit it for him, rolling the Durex over his twitching, spittle-coated cock. She didn't believe that his shaking hands could fit the prophylactic quickly enough for her needs. She grinned up at his bemused face as she squeezed what she and Sally called the "spunk teat" at the closed end of the condom.

Becca was directing the show. It was she who crawled to present her ass to him and placed a hand between her legs. The yoni that he had photographed was delicately parted again by the fingers of one hand, this time solely as a point of aim.

David Head slid effortlessly into Becca Seehofer despite the innate friction afforded by the sheath. Conjoined at last, she squeezed and gripped the hot and slick phallus with her supple vagina. Although she relented by relaxing the muscles surrounding her love tube, she skilfully maintained sufficient pressure to restrict his passage. She knew that such subtle impediment would bolster his confidence by suggesting his girth exceeded her vaginal flexibility. And they say there is no art in lovemaking...

She heard him gasp with delight when halting balls deep within her, their contrasting pubes intermingling and matting together. With the purpose of mutual gratification, they animatedly fucked upon the bed in the chilly studio.

"Better...?" panted Becca, her fingers frigging her clit.

"Much..." His eyes were drawn to the pink starfish of her butthole.

"You're good..."

"You're not bad yourself..."

"I'm gonna cum," muttered a panting Becca.

He thrust harder as she knew he would when inspired by her claim. Becca seldom came by simple penetration. Although undeniably assisted by his priapic ingress, it was her fingers working upon her clit that triggered her climax. She broadcast her genuine orgasm by means of oral acclaim, her climax gift wrapped in her utterances of carnal delight for the benefit of her partner.

The doggy-style fucking male's climax was silently issued save for a gasping, stuttering exhalation preceded by a slackening of rhythm and a more insistent urge to bury himself deeper within her obliging body. Condoms were not the best way to enjoy sex, but she had to concede that they were accomplished collators, predisposing the need for messy cum-shots.

They lay entwined in a post-coital embrace. The man spent and sated, Becca satisfyingly pleasured and relaxed despite being more than capable of a repeat performance.

"Better...?" he asked languidly. He stroked her breast, avoiding the nipple less it inflame her desires that he was unable to satisfy.

"Uhm... Thank you..." She purred like the cat that had got the cream. Said cream was currently leaking from the condom he had tossed on the floor.

"I don't get thanked very often. It's usually as though I've been granted a favour by the model," he admitted.

"As a feminist, I recognise that sex should be a shared endeavour." He laughed at her comment. "What's so funny?"

"You make me laugh, in a good way... I've never known a feminist pose starkers and fuck the photographer."

"You've got the wrong idea of feminism. It's not about hating men, though I admit that some feminists do and a lot of men are bastards. Feminism is about the rightful expectation of fair play and a level playing field. Feminists enjoy making love like any girl. I'll grant you, I am odd though. I do have a proclivity for sex. And let me tell you that you were a very considerate lover."

She took his flaccid cock gently in the palm of her hand. It had shrunk to almost nothing. The foreskin, puckered in a concertina-like sleeve, covered the tip of the deflated tool. It was indeed a token of Becca's penchant for the sensual that she found even a superfluous cock as a thing of tactile, velvety beauty and revelled in the wonder of how this inch of bundled tissue and sinew could swell into a thing of such penetrative dexterity.

"How old are, luv?" asked the photographer.

"Twenty-three... You?"

"Thirty-three... Do you have a boyfriend?" He had noticed the diamond engagement ring on her finger and wondered what her fiancé would think if he ever found out that she'd just been explicitly photographed and fucked upon a bed in a photographic studio.

"No...," replied Becca idly, her attention seemingly absorbed by his flaccidity.

Dave was usually embarrassed by his cock. Although adequate when engorged, it all too easily vanished at other times. However, with this young lady, he felt at ease with his endowment. He had never known a girl be so tender and loving with his spent phallus.

"The engagement ring?" he enquired, tenderly brushing away a strand of golden hair from her face.

"Just a prop. Men seem to get off on shagging someone they believe to be in a relationship. I first wore it for a French woman who particularly enjoyed the idea of seducing another man's fiancé. Sometimes I wear a wedding ring."

"So there is no boyfriend?" he pressed.

"No... Disappointed?"

"Nope, glad actually."

"You're quite sweet really, Mr Head." Becca leant across and lightly kissed his lips.

"Ditto, Miss Mountford. Listen... I know we barely know each other, but if you ever need someone to talk to... I'm not suggesting anything physical, just to share a beer... Well, just to say, I can be a good listener."

Becca's blue eyes narrowed. During the twelve and more months she had been a courtesan, no one had asked her out on a date. Well, that wasn't strictly true. Several members of the department had asked her out. However, interdepartmental fraternisation was frowned upon and Becca had not been interested in the offers. She was unsure how many at CATS were aware of her professional alter ego.

"Are you asking me out on a date?"

"No, no... Just a beer and a chat. I thought it might be fun."

"You can take me out for a drink now if you like? You did say you were going down the pub."

"Really?" asked a delighted but surprised photographer.

"I may be a tart, Mr Head, but beneath this stunning body and horny disposition, there happens to be just a girl who wants to be treated like an ordinary girl. Is that so bad?"

Dave smiled. "Not at all. It's refreshing to hear. It's not easy being a bloke in the sixties."

"I can tell you, it isn't easy being a girl. And it's almost the seventies."

"Point taken... You'll like the Crown and Anchor."

Chapter 9 - Contagious Contentions.

Good Friday, 18^th April 2014.

Mount Pleasant Cottage, Southern England.

"Did you ever meet David Head again?" solicited Sybil.

"Oh, yes... We became good friends. He was behind the camera on the majority of my photo shoots. He knew how to make a girl look good on camera."

"Did Ryan know him?"

"No, Ryan sadly wasn't around long enough..." She let the poignancy of the statement linger in the air. "Dave was a good friend after Ryan died. A shoulder to cry on, so to speak. Why have you and Isobel fallen out?"

"We haven't fallen out. We're just not seeing each other."

"Because of her modelling career?" challenged Becca.

"No... Something happened last summer. We were fine about it even after we both-" Sybil's declaration died on her lips.

"Both what, darling?" urged Sybil.

"We both caught chlamydia."

"I see... At the same time?" Only Becca could press for clarification after such a declaration. She admired the manner in which Sybil made the announcement. It implied a maturity that Sybil had often lacked. Her granddaughter was growing up.

"Yeah... We were on like a hen weekend up in Manchester."

"And she blames you? Or vice versa?

"No, we didn't blame each other. It was only later that we didn't see eye to eye."

"You both had sex with the same man?"

"Yeah... Well, to be honest, Gran, we had like sex with a few men..."

"I see... Hence your earlier enquiry about me catching something. I won't lecture you, Sybil. I'm sure you took something from the experience."

Rebecca Seehofer never failed to surprise Sybil Torricelli. Sybil had delayed telling her gran about her infection. Although her Grandmother had been, not beating about the bush, a tart, Sybil had still expected a grand-paternal lecture concerning safe sex. Becca failed to do so. Sybil felt no shame about the infection. Annoyance and foolhardiness remained the most pressing memory.

"I did, Gran... It curbed my adventurous spirit..." Sybil grinned sheepishly at her grandmother, who reciprocated with a philosophical tilt of her head. "Trouble is, Izzy and I took different messages from what was essentially a gangbang. Whereas it calmed me down, it seemed to unleash something in Izzy."

Rebecca did not profess to know much about Isobel Torricelli since she had reached the age of puberty. For reasons too complicated (yet essentially petty) to go into, Becca had associated more with her daughter's sister-in-law than she had with her own daughter's family.

Sybil and Isobel had been sired by two brothers, both men of third generation Italian decent. Becca marvelled at the dominance of the Latin genes in both girls, for by physical appearance alone, both might have been raised on the back streets of Napoli.

Isobel had always been the most intelligent and studious as far as Becca could recall, her mother boasting that Isobel could read by the age of two. Showing a natural aptitude for the sciences, it came as no surprise that Isobel should go on to study engineering. Whilst never adhering to the stereotypical model of a tomboy, Isobel had nonetheless eschewed the girly accompaniments foisted upon her by her concerned mother.

Mrs Cynthia Torricelli née Meriwether need not have concerned herself. Whether Isobel desired it or not, she blossomed into an attractive teenager who was patently heterosexual. Unlike Sybil, Isobel had never actively sought out male companionship. It had sought out her. She provided the double-whammy of advantageousness by being able to throw a dart, hold a pool cue, down a pint, and then later provide enthralling entertainment of a more feminine variety.

To the adolescent and young adult Isobel, sexual relationships were of no significance other than a passage of rights. Despite being feted by males, she had by and large been untroubled and remained focused upon her studies. Indeed, she approached sex as she might any mechanical theorem set by a tutor.

Posing nude and engaging in erotic work as a glamour model was not the Isobel that Rebecca had known as a child or subsequently heard reported upon as a young adult. Some acquired influence was at work. Whether that had been chlamydia inspired, Becca was in no position to offer an opinion.

And yet... And yet Becca believed there was something else as yet untold that had come between the two estranged cousins who had once been more like sisters.

"So are you going to tell we what happened in Manchester?" probed Becca gently.

"I'm not sure you want to know, Gran..."

Becca offered one of her theatrical sighs of which the late Sir Fabien Lethbridge, victim of the eighties HIV epidemic, would have been proud.

"Sybil, darling... I have recounted my experiences, barely scratching the surface, which for the most part you have accepted in a most mature fashion, and I include your afternoon masturbatory indulgences in the flattering statement."

"I so like do not!" Sybil stymied her protest. There was no point in defending the indefensible in the presence of the omnipotent one.

"As I was going to say... I doubt that there is anything you can say that will shock me. I have found, as I believe you to will find, that retelling is a cathartic experience. Recounting aloud provides a definite veracity that only thinking absolves us of. Give it a try."

Sybil paused reflectively, lit a cigarette, and addressed her grandmother. "Be it on your own head, Rebecca Seehofer... But don't you dare tell mum or I'll never speak to you again!"

As soon as she issued the declaration, Sybil understood the significance of what she had said. Becca and her mother had been estranged since before she had been born. Her shared laughter with Becca eased the tension within her body and made what she was about to relate all the easier, yet not without discomfort.

Chapter 10 - Henrietta's Chicks.

Saturday, 17^th August 2013.

Manchester, England.

The Club Frisson in Manchester was pretty much as Sybil expected. To be honest, clubs were not really her scene. She didn't mind the occasional bop at a retro disco night at college. However, she found full-on comtemporary clubs a little heavy for her tastes. She attended because it was considered de rigueur. More than that, the unusual steps had been taken to hold the men's stag and girls' hen parties on the same night and the same city in the northwest of England.

Henrietta Deschamps was their focal point for the evening. The appropriately named Hen was to marry the Honourable George Lampton, in whose honour the experimental joint pre-nuptial celebration weekend had been arranged. Of course, Henrietta being Henrietta was having two hen weekends, the second alone with girls in Budapest.

Sybil Torricelli was very much the outsider and could study the group dynamics with an impartial indifference. Personally, she thought combining a hen and stag night was a recipe for disaster. She wondered how Henrietta had been persuaded to spend a hen weekend in Manchester. To the best of Sybil's knowledge, Henrietta had never ventured north of Watford without suffering from a nosebleed.

The club in which the girls found themselves was large with a balcony that revealed its cinema origins. The old circle was now the bar area and the stalls the main dance floor. For the second and final evening of the hen weekend, Hen's party wore specially prepared tee shirts for the occasion.