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From: "alancmcd" <alancmcd@lineone.net>
Subject: {ASSM} Re: Passages In Time 3: The Confidence Of Lovers mf/rom *
Date: Tue, 22 May 2001 07:10:02 -0400
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The Warning:

   If you aren't old enough to understand why Benny Hill was chasing after
all those women in swimming costumes, then vamoose.  As in scram.  Scat. 
Go away.  Take a powder.  Take a hike.  Shove off.

   As for the rest of you....

   Too much technobabble in this one, maybe.  And I accept (Celeste pointed
it out to me) that technobabble can get in the way of a good story.

   The thing is, "Passages In Time" is time travel, sci-fi sex.  It's
important that the back story hangs together, and that it be adequately
explained.  Besides, I like the back story, and I wanted to tease it out
over a few chapters.  The problem, though, is that such tactics require a
new reader to search out the previous stuff (The Awakening and The Laying
Of Claim if you're interested - see the archives).  Otherwise, the new
story is inaccessible.  Sorry.

   I will continue "Passages In Time" (and I will reduce the technobabble,
although unfortunately it pops up, of necessity, quite a bit in Chapters 3
and 4).

   Onward, then.  Comments, as usual, welcome at alancmcd@lineone.net, and
many thanks to those who have written already.

   THE STORY SO FAR: Sarah is rescuing aliens from their imprisonment
within humans throughout the history of....  oh, look, you'll pick it
up.....

   PASSAGES IN TIME by Alan C.  McDonald

   Chapter 3: THE CONFIDENCE OF LOVERS

   BERLIN, 3RD MARCH 1938

   "And might I add", Melira said, "that you might have been a bit more
considerate with your caveman antics.  My poor host won't be able to walk
straight for weeks."

   Sarah giggled.  "It wasn't my fault", she reminded.  "I had no control.
When I was him, all I felt was, well, desperation.  You were going to get
fucked, and that was all there was to it."

   "Well, it hurt", Melira complained, and cringed.

   Sarah giggled again.  She was more comfortable now that she could see
the person who was talking to her, and that had not been the case with
Jober.  She didn't quite understand the process by which the illusion was
created, and even though at times Melira's voice, like Jober's, seemed to
be coming from within, she knew that Melira, the person she could see, was
the source.

   Melira claimed to represent herself accurately.  If so then, apart from
the addition of clothing, she bore a striking similarity to the primitive
whose body she had until recently been resident in.  When Sarah had pointed
this out, Melira had agreed.  "It's always that way.  The influence we
exert on those whose existences we share appears to amend them physically."

   The facets of appearance which Melira had shared with her host had,
Sarah now realised, been the reason why the caveman had been so attracted
to that host.  The woman within whom Melira had lived had not been a woman
of her time.  She had been taller than she should have been, more feminine,
possessing the litheness of a more developed creature.  The caveman had
been lured and captivated by her exotic nature.

   There had been other factors too, of course.  The fact that she had been
naked hadn't particularly hindered matters.  Although even now, dressed in
a figure hugging thigh length green velvet dress, Melira was an absolute
vision.

   The surroundings in which she had chosen to be an absolute vision,
having declared herself bored with the tumbling timestream, were pretty
impressive too.  A manor house, Sarah guessed.  Probably Edwardian.  But
the rooms were not constant, changing in layout and nature according to
Melira's occasional whim.

   Their current location was a reading room, with bookshelves along two
walls heaving with handsomely bound tomes, and with rich oil paintings
decorating the other two.  A central table, at which Melira was seated,
bore an impressive candelabra.  "You just wouldn't know that time was
passing you by, would you?", Melira joked, regally waving a hand.

   "I'm so impressed", Sarah replied tartly, whilst glancing at herself in
a large mirror placed strategically between two bookshelves.  Even the
sight of herself was, she knew, a mere representation, because her real
body was in 1997, being given a pretty good shafting by one Gary Callery in
the cheap rate room of a Manchester brothel.  And her real body, just like
Melira's, was stark naked, whereas this image of her wore a dress identical
to Melira's in all design respects except colour.  Sarah's version of the
garment was yellow.

   In all material respects, however, the image was perfect.  She could
sense her hands, her legs, all of her body, as though such things were
real. When she pulled her hair experimentally, she felt pain.

   And the fascination of the mirror lay in the fact that every gesture she
made was duplicated in it.

   She indulged herself, studied herself.  She was, she decided, a good
looking woman.  And she enjoyed that.

   But the truth was, she had enjoyed being a man too.  Particularly
insofar as the sexual sensations were concerned.  Those had been very
different.  Not better, but very different.

   For one thing, there had been a sense of power, a power which arose
primarily from being the penetrator rather than the penetrated.  For
another, there had been the sharp concentration of sensation, and the sheer
physical relief of ejaculation, as well as the feeling of both completion
and commitment that passing something of oneself into another human being
created.

   Now, of course, she was considering the probability that she was neither
man nor woman.  That she was not human.  That her origins were other than
terrestrial.

   She vaguely understood her task at last, and some of its purpose.  She
even accepted that her existence as Sarah, whilst remaining valid, was
subsidiary to that task.  Because Melira had told her the story, and as it
had been told, Sarah had started to remember.

   Like all Revisians, Loranna had been captivated by the idea of the Grand
Tour, which had been proposed as an experiment and an entertainment by the
celebrated adventurer Kotee.  Kotee had theorised and developed some time
previously a way in which time travel might be possible.  Loranna had never
understood the physics, but in essence the traveller became unlinear.  The
individual existed in all times at once, effectively becoming a part of the
time stream.  It then took only a mental effort to isolate a moment within
that time stream and to observe it.

   Unlike previous time travel schemes, the Central Council had permitted
the research, mainly because any traveller using the technology was trapped
in a passive, observing role.  Past time could not be contaminated, which
had always been a primary concern, and future travel would be limited by
the machinery to twenty turnings of the moon and was only to be permitted
with stringent confidentiality undertakings.  There had been, nonetheless,
opposition, principally from those who claimed that no Revisian would ever
again have privacy, that it would never again be possible to be certain
that someone from the future was not watching them.

   There were also limitations.  The linear dissolution was a temporary
status which required technical support from a stable tachyon field.  For
the experiment, this field was located in the laboratories of the Astro
Centre, but Kotee had been unable to overcome the problem of powering the
field sufficiently to permit travellers to move more than ten ruhls from
the Centre and more than five turnings of the moons into either the past or
the future.

   Then the breakthrough came.  What, Kotee wondered, would restrict him if
he were to build the tachyon field into the skin of a spacecraft?  The
field would thus become mobile, and the distance limitation would be
removed.  It was an exceptional notion, and one which Kotee had always
claimed to have conceived within a paradox.  He had, he said, gone forward
five turnings and had seen himself starting to modify the craft.

   There were dangers.  In particular, there was a notional long term
fallout issue.  Also, as the practicality of the proposal came to be
accepted, people became concerned about temptation.

   It was theorised that the chance of looking far into the future might be
just too tempting for Kotee and those who travelled with him to resist.  A
meeting of the Science Council was therefore convened, and a compromise
reached.  Kotee would be permitted to modify his spaceship, but would be
banned from using it within the Revisian system.  Kotee's honour was never
in doubt, and his acceptance of the conditions ended the matter.

   Revisians had long been space travellers, and had mapped over half of
the galaxy.  There would be much for a spaceship full of travellers to see,
and Kotee had no trouble in securing recruits.  Loranna, one of Kotee's
students, had volunteered immediately, and the ship had launched with a
total crew of twenty five.

   Once clear of the Revisian system, the time field had been engaged.

   It had been a fine adventure.  Because the crew were young, romance and
sex had enlivened the vessel, and Loranna, despite her status as mission
second, had joined in with a will.

   The history and future of many worlds had been dipped into, and the
Revisian crew were able to establish that many races would develop
technologically in the future, that the fate of the universe was in good
hands.  War, whilst glimpsed, was not a common thread.  At least, it wasn't
until the Revisians visited earth.

   Sarah's thoughts were suddenly disturbed.  The library dissolved around
her, to be replaced by the now familiar twisting colours which seemed to be
the way in which her eyes interpreted travel throgh time.  The twisting,
she noted, was sluggish, and she read this as an indication that a stopping
point had been selected.  She raised an enquiring eyebrow at Melira.

   "We're going to rescue Holak", the other girl replied.  "He's the next
on the list."

   "I wasn't aware that we were following a list", Sarah mentioned.

   "Well, we aren't really", Melira conceded.  "Not as such.  But we have
tried this before, you know.  We know where some of our people are.  So
every time we make a new effort, we visit those places first."

   "Go for the easiest ones", Sarah interpreted.

   "Well, yes", Melira acknowledged.  "Because in essence, the more we are,
the stronger we are."

   "And Holak is a simple rescue", Sarah presumed.  "An easy target."

   Melira chuckled.  "You don't remember Holak, do you?  He was always
easy. No, never mind.  We haven't time for that sort of smut.  Yes, he is
an easy target.  But valuable too.  He's...  well, a bit unusual."

   "He preferred the back way", Sarah remembered, suddenly seeing a clear
picture in her mind.  Blonde.  Craggy face.  Sharp blue eyes.  Logical
mind. Not much of a sense of humour.  But always co-operative in the
recreational sex department.

   "Yes, he did prefer the back way", Melira confirmed.  "And that's the
problem."

   "Why a problem?", Sarah wondered.  "As far as I can recall, it never
bothered me.  As far as I can recall, it never bothered you either."

   "It didn't", Melira said.  "But that way won't free him.  The exchange
of fluids is the important thing in transference, you see.  An exchange
in...  well, in the usual place.  And the human Holak has occupied has, not
surprisingly, inherited Holak's preferences.  So this time, you're going to
need to concentrate not only on who you want but...  well, not to put too
fine a point on it, where you want it."

   "Just how difficult is he going to be?", Sarah asked.  "From previous
experience?"

   "We've succeeded four out of five times", Melira advised.  "Pretty good
odds."

   Sarah nodded, accepting that.  "Clearly I'm a female this time", she
stated.

   Melira nodded in turn.  "Sorry if it disappoints you", she said, "but
yes.  And we've arrived, incidentally, at the place where you put yout
femininity to use."

   Sarah felt like she was part of a magic trick.  The colours rolled away,
and she found herself looking at a smoky nightclub.  Not a particularly
modern one, she realised, because the waiters who moved between the crowded
tables wore black jackets and bow ties, and the tables were in rows, small
and circular and lit by table lamps.  She almost expected to see Humphrey
Bogart standing by the bar.

   Her fondness for the movies gave her a good steer towards the time
period.  The clientele of the club were predominately male and
predominantly employed in the German armed forces.  The Nazi uniforms left
her in no doubt of that.

   To the right of the room, there was a small stage, currently occupied by
two women in early middle age, dressed up like fairies and banging their
bottoms together.  Their movements were awkward, but were presumably
intended to represent a dance to the discordant soundtrck provided by an
unseen oompah band.  The audience was barracking them good naturedly. 
"Paris", she guessed.  "1940."

   Melira shook her head.  "Close", she said.  "But not quite.  We're in
Berlin, Germany.  And the time is March 1938.  This is a period, you may
recall, that we studied extensively.  Because we thought it a good
grounding in human fatalism.  That said, I don't know whether Holak came
here by accident, or whether he steered himself here.  I don't suppose it
really matters."

   "It isn't Casablanca after all then", Sarah announced.  "I thought it
was.  But it's "Cabaret." "I Am A Camera." Christopher Isherwood, and all
that."

   Melira frowned.  Clearly her knowledge of the planet's popular culture
was not as extensive as her familiarity with its history.  "All I know",
she said, "is that it's a very important night.  Your target is Gunther.  A
shy man generally, but we know that tonight...  well, there's a good chance
of making things happen.  And we can't afford the time or the energy to
search around for another time when Gunther finds a lady friend.  We'll
need all that energy later on.  When we really do need to start hunting."

   "Gunther it is then", Sarah said.  "Hadn't I better take a look at him?"

   Melira was momentarily confused.  "A look?"

   "Of course", Sarah replied.  "If I'm going to fix my ambitions on him,
wouldn't it help if I knew who he was?"

   Melira smiled agreement and pointed.  "Blonde guy", she said. 
"Captain's uniform.  By the wall." Already, as well as pointing, she was
moving them closer.  Moments later, it was as though they were standing,
invisible, by Gunther's table.

   Sarah studied him, and wasn't in the least surprised to note the
incredible resemblance to Holak.  Neatly tended short blonde hair stood
guard on a thick neck.  Piercing blue eyes watched the stage, disinterested
yet anxious.  The man's face was chiselled, like some sixties TV action
hero, but the mouth, wide and voluptuous, was out of place for that image.
He was slim and fit.  Not, Sarah had to admit,the sort of man that she
would have gone out of her way to pull, principally because of his apparent
stiffness.  But attractive enough.

   He was smoking a cigarette, his shirt was open at the neck, his cap was
on the table before him and the debris on his table showed that he had
consumed at least four glasses at least of some clear spirit.  But the
alcohol had not left him at ease.  His left hand balled occasionally into a
fist, and he was perspiring slightly.  His uniform, because of his tight
posture, was still crisp and uncreased.

   "Serious bloke", Sarah remarked.

   "He's waiting for you", Melira explained.  "Well, for who you're going
to be.  He's not just serious.  He's obsessed."

   "And who", Sarah enquired, "am I going to be?  One of these old bum
bangers?"

   "Not at all", Melira said, fighting a chuckle.  "You, my girl, are going
to be the famous Lucy Bennett." For a moment, she left it there, but
Sarah's confused look seemed to force the further observation, "Oh, come
on. You're the entertainment buff.  You must have heard of Lucy Bennett."

   "Remind me", Sarah suggested.  They were walking now, towards the wall
to the left of the stage, then, disorientatingly, they were walking through
it.  The bum bangers, meanwhile, were concluding their act, earning muted
applause and a few catcalls.

   "Lucy Bennett", Melira lectured, "was, before the outbreak of the Second
World War, perhaps the most famous cabaret artiste in Berlin.  New York
girl.  Sassy as they come.  A real star.  You'll love her."

   "Does she take it up the ass?", Sarah said.  "Because if that's going to
be new for her, I'm not sure I want to bother.  The first time I did it, it
was bloody painful."

   "No comment", Melira replied with a smirk.

   "Great", Sarah sulked.  By now, they were in one of the club's dressing
rooms, having entered through the wall just as the bum bangers entered
through the door.  Bum bangers included and ghostly visitors excluded,
there were six people in the room, enough to make it crowded.

   Only one of those present was male, a tiny individual in his early
forties with white hair, a white handlebar moustache and a white suit.  He
was busy fussing the new arrivals, lying to them, telling them that they'd
put on a wonderful show.  The other three were young women, two of them
tarty blondes made up so heavily that they could have imprinted their faces
on towels and wearing dresses so low cut that their nipples were fighting
to say, "Hello."

   The third young woman, who was currently applying lipstick in front of a
mirror, was rather more sophisticated.  She was wearing a low cut black
dress, revealing fine legs disguised by sheer black stockings, a dress slit
vertically but not too broadly to the breastbone, teasing with a hint of
cleavage.  In truth, she didn't have a lot of cleavage to reveal, because
her figure was quite elfin.  She was strikingly good looking, with a tiny,
angular face, a long neck, a small, red mouth, and big green eyes, lovely
eyes which shone in contrast to the black of her upturned eyelashes and her
short black hair.  The hair was plumped up but otherwise almost as short as
would be worn by a man of the time.

   She took Sarah's breath away, and Melira clearly noticed this,
commenting, "She's lovely, isn't she?"

   "I do hope that's me", Sarah said.  "It's you", Melira confirmed.

   "I can't wait", Sarah confided.  "Now?"

   "Good a time as any", Melira decided.

   "And exactly where are you going to be", Sarah wondered, "while I'm
trying to get Gunther to do things properly."

   "Watching, of course", Melira said.  "But don't worry.  You won't know.
So you won't be embarrassed."

   "I might be afterwards", Sarah supposed.

   "After what you've already done to me", Melira judged, "I doubt it."

   "There is that", Sarah conceded.  "Well then.  Here goes."

   So she concentrated.  And this time it was easy.  The transition was
simpler.  The moment of shared consciousness was briefer.  And then she
felt herself disappearing into Lucy Bennett.....

   ....Who was consumed by just one thought.  "Hey, Arturo", she called. 
"Arturo, will you quit with the bumbangers and give me a minute here."

   Bumbangers?  Where the hell, she wondered, had that come from?  Well,
the where was irrelevant.  Apology was the important thing, because Frieda
looked just about ready to burst into tears.

   "A little cruel, cherie", Arturo remarked critically.  "Everyone has to
earn a living, n'est ce pas?"

   "Yeah, I'm sorry", Lucy insisted.  "Frieda.  Eva.  Really sorry.  No
offence.  You were great, kids.  Truly."

   Frieda smiled uncertainly, but the crisis was past.  Arturo wandered
over.  "What can I do for you, cherie?", he wanted to know.

   "I wondered if David was here tonight", she said.

   "Ah, David", Arturo replied, as loudly as he could.  "You wondered if
David was here." There was general laughter at Lucy's expense, and she
coloured.  For a moment she wanted to punch the nasty little Spaniard in
the nose.

   Of course, she couldn't afford to do that.  If she was dismissed from
her job here at the Liebehaus, then she'd only have two choices.  Something
a lot more sleazy here in Berlin, or poverty in New York City.  And she'd
have to leave David behind.

   "Yes, David", she grated.

   "No David, I am so sorry to say", Arturo taunted.  "But plenty of German
boys in crisp uniforms drooling at you, Lucy dear."

   "You know I hate those scum", Lucy snarled recklessly, the lost job
suddenly less important.

   "They are good boys", Arturo replied playfully.  "Good German mothers'
boys.  They show you what it's all about, Lucy.  Fucking German boys is
good for business."

   "Arturo", Lucy stated coldly, "I've told you before.  I'm a dancer.  And
an entertainer.  You want whores, you hire whores.  I'll dance for the
bastards, but if any of them touches me, I'll cut their balls off."

   Arturo raised his hands to his mouth in mock horror.  "But David, his
balls are safe", he presumed, "because he's so nice and so English."

   "You wouldn't understand", Lucy told him.  And it was true.  Arturo was
such a degenerate, twisted character that love was an alien emotion for
him. He slept with anyone who would have him, male or female, and was famed
as the most compliant of masochists.

   David Holm had no such flaws.

   David was a British journalist working permanently in Berlin, a handsome
man and a gentleman of the highest order.  Lucy had tried to seduce him on
a number of occasions without success, but she continued to hold out hope.
His commitment to her was a given, though, because he escorted her to
restaurants and shows on a regular basis, and telephoned to chat and flirt
with her at least twice daily.

   There were rumours that he might be homosexual, but Lucy discounted
them. He was hers.  It was simply that she had yet to find the key to open
him up.

   Arturo left the room, indicating his intention to introduce her.  As
soon as he had gone, the other girls immediately offered their sympathy. 
"He is just a jealous man", Eva judged.  "I think he is attracted to David
himself."

   Lucy bent to pull on her black high heeled shoes.  "Thanks, Eva", she
said.  "But it's alright.  Arturo's a lizard.  He doesn't bother me."

   "Why do you stay, Lucy?", Isobel, one of the younger girls, wondered. 
"I mean, we have to.  There is no choice for us.  But you.  You can go back
to America.  Land of the free, eh?"

   "I wish I could sometimes, Isobel", Lucy replied.  "But not often.  For
the most part, I'm happy here."

   And she was.  Lucy had come to Berlin in 1933, when her father had been
posted to the city by the international bank for which he worked.  She was
an only child, and her mother had walked out two years after her birth. 
Things had gone well, despite the poverty and upheaval in the city, but
then, in 1937, her father had been posted again, this time to West Africa.
Lucy, having many friends in Berlin, had refused to go with him.  There had
been a difficult argument, but Lucy's mind had not changed, and her father
had left Germany all but disowning her.

   Over the next six months, the friends she had so treasured had seemed to
melt away, and eventually she was forced to accept that her father's money
had been the primary reason for the deprived Berlin teenagers' involvement
with her.  And that money, of course, was not only now denied to those
teenagers.  It was denied to Lucy too.

   She had been forced to edit her lifestyle somewhat when she realised
that her personal savings were running out.  The first priority had been a
cheap room.  Of necessity, she had moved to a poorer area of Berlin.  An
area which was frequented by prostitutes and which, at night, was
illuminated by the bright lights of the gentlemens' clubs.

   Financial difficulty had become pennilessness.  And she had been left
with two options.  To join the girls in the streets.  Or to use the limited
talent for singing and dancing which she had acquired as a young girl, to
use it in a rather sleazy manner.  This last possibility had been put to
her by Eva, who had a room in the same lodging house.

   The thought of becoming a whore had been unbearable.  As a result, she'd
allowed Eva to introduce her to Arturo.

   Arturo had found the prospect of Lucy joining his "ladies" a potential
moneyspinner.  Her nationality, he had decided, would be a real pull.  An
American, bumping and grinding for Germans.  It had to be a winner.

   He had started her big, and public reaction had made her a roaring
success.  Within weeks, she was headlining the bill.  To her shame, she
found that she was very good indeed at what she was called upon to do.

   The routines were relatively simple.  Three or four crude songs, in the
company of Arturo and some of the other girls were followed by a stage
dance routine during which Lucy left the others on the stage to move around
amongst the audience, showing her stuff more privately.  She was only too
well aware that at such times she was little more than a glorified
stripper. The fact that she kept her clothes on was frankly irrelevant.

   So.  It was time.

   Trailing Isobel and the other younger blonde, Mariella, in her wake,
Lucy headed for the stage.  Still adjusting her costume, she moved to the
wings.  Arturo was ending his short and appalling comedy routine with some
nasty joke about two copulating dogs.

   Lucy took a deep breath.  The laughter was dying.  Arturo took on a mock
serious demeanour.

   "Ladies and gentlemen", he announced.  "I bring to you now the lady who
has taken Berlin by storm.  I bring to you, ladies and gentlemen...  Miss
Lucy Bennett."

   Lucy moved.  She had been nervous as usual, but there was no time for
nerves now.

   It wasn't all bad.  When she was on stage, before the floor dancing, she
always enjoyed herself.  Less so since the Nazis had discovered the club,
but enough to keep on performing.  Performing gave her a thrill.  It was
just as simple as that.

   The first song was difficult, though, because it involved a lot of
touching in personal places.  Lucy touched the girls and the girls touched
Lucy.  Arturo touched the girls and the girls touched Arturo.  Towards the
conclusion, Arturo came to stand behind Lucy and reached up to squeeze her
breasts.  Each squeeze was accompanied by the blast of a motor horn from
the orchestra pit.  It was degrading.  But she could live with it.

   After that, the show proceeded as it always proceeded.  Audience
reaction was good.  She immersed herself in that reaction, committed
herself to performance.

   It was during the third song that she noticed the German officer.

   She didn't know why she found him so riveting.  It was as though some
relay inside her had clicked.  Her reaction was a gut reaction, an
uncontrollable physical response that she didn't particularly like.  The
odd thing was that she'd seen the man before and had never been at all
stricken.  But now, she noticed everything about him.  His strong eyes and
hard, masculine profile.  His intensity.  His obsessive rather than passing
observation of her.  She felt heat in her face, and a vague stirring in her
groin.

   Throughout the remainder of the song, and through the one that followed,
she took every opportunity that she could to glance in his direction.  She
hated his uniform.  But she was attracted by his power, and by his naked
lust for her.

   There was no doubt that he had registered the return of interest,
because his posture stiffened.  Lucy was frightened by him, and strangely
this fuelled her interest.

   The time of the evening arrived when she was required to leave the
stage. Still drawn, she drifted in his direction, pausing to dance
lackadaisickally in front of a couple of customers on her way, failing even
to register their faces.  She stopped again at a table two to the left of
his, ground her hips for a fat middle aged lieutenant.  All the while, she
looked at the other man, the man who had sparked such animalistic urges in
her.

   As she'd hoped, he beckoned her, and she immediately went to him.  Close
up, he was even more attractive than she'd thought, a classic Aryan type
with blonde short cropped hair and a firm jaw.

   She restarted her dance, moving in much the same way as she had done for
the other men, but more slowly, more naturally.  He had time for her body,
observing it closely from time to time, but in the main he watched her
face, those hot eyes gripping hers, compelling her to treat him
differently. She knew that she was wet between her legs.  And she knew that
he could resolve that problem.  And she was pretty sure that he would want
to.  Opportunity was the only missing element.

   A murmur of discontent rumbled through the audience.  She forced herself
to move on, but she was dizzy with confusion and lust.  Her body and mind
had been hijacked.

   Since she had first met David, he had never been quite so far from her
thoughts.

   She returned to the stage after about ten minutes, perspiring, still
disorientated, and performed the last number.  She was conscious of
Arturo's amusement, and expected a rough time later.

   The expectation was, of course, correct.  Back in the dressing room,
Arturo teased her mercilessly, unable, he claimed, to get over his relief
that she had found a good German boy.  The hurtful thing was that even the
girls seemed to find her plight amusing.

   She got back into her street clothing as quickly as possible, anxious to
be free, to have time to think.  She was pulling her coat on when there was
a gentle knocking on the door.

   She sighed.  Tonight, of all nights, she couldn't cope with another old
man offering her undying love and a place in the country.  And when Arturo
had spoken with the visitor and confirmed that she was wanted, her fears
appeared to have been realised.

   She moved to stand by Arturo, already rehearsing her excuse.  Some prior
engagement.  Some important prior engagement.  The doctor?  No, too late at
night for that.  What could she say....?

   But her visitor was no old man.  It was the officer she had danced for.
Danced for so slowly.  Danced for so naturally.

   He was standing in the doorway, smiling rather sheepishly, looking for
all the world like a lovelorn little boy.  Now that he was out of the
steamy atmosphere of the club room, his confidence and much of his power
had apparently deserted him.

   Because of that, she wanted him all the more.  The only thing that
prevented her falling head over heels in love with him there and then was
the evil tale that his uniform told.  But, for the first time ever, she
believed that she saw something of worth beneath that uniform.

   "My name is Gunther", he said, his English excellent, his voice softer
than she had anticipated.  "I wondered whether you might consider joining
me for dinner."

   She held out a hand.  "Lucy Bennett", she replied.  "And...  well, yes.
Why not?  I'd be delighted." Her heart was pounding.

   Instead of shaking the hand as she'd expected, Gunther touched it to his
lips.

   She liked the soft touch, felt herself colour slightly.  "I know a
little restaurant in Riffstrasse", he suggested.  "Intimate, but you will
find it safe."

   "Is safety a concern for me, Gunther?", she responded playfully.  "With
you, I mean.  Are you safe?"

   "No free meal here, cherie", Arturo butted in, using his infuriating
sing song delivery.  "You sing for your supper with a man like this.  Am I
correct, Gunther?" And he playfully punched the man on the shoulder.

   For a moment, it appeared that Gunther was going to hit the little man.
Then he said flatly, "Such comments, in the presence of a lady, are
unwelcome.  To her and to me.  Perhaps an apology should follow."

   Arturo whitened.  "No offence intended", he said, shrinking, if it were
possible, in stature.  "I mean it.  Just a joke.  Just my way.  No offence
at all."

   Gunther nodded, satisfied.  "And Lucy's duties are finished for the
night?", he supposed, pressing home his advantage.

   "Completely", the Spaniard agreed, backing away at least a foot.

   "Then, Miss Bennett", Gunther said, crooking his arm, "perhaps you would
do me the honour of accompanying me."

   And accompany him Lucy did, linked to that arm.  She accompanied him to
the restaurant.  She accompanied him to a hotel, for a drink.  She
accompanied him into a taxi.

   He was on leave, he said, and came from Berlin.  He had rooms, he said,
in Berlin.

   She accompamied him to those rooms too.  But she didn't stay more than
an hour.

   In the morning, she woke with an unusually good feeling, remembering
him. She remembered the grace with which he had escorted her, and the ease
with which she had conversed with him.  She remembered his unease about
Hitler and the Nazi party, an admission which had allowed her to get much
closer to him.  She remembered his sincerity, obvious from his smile.  She
remembered his shyness, the fact that she had needed to kiss him rather
than the other way round, the fact that she had needed to encourage his
hand to her breast.

   She remembered how gentle he had been, and how she had instantly
regretted her refusal of his request that he might be permitted to make
love to her.

   "Not on the first night, Gunther", she had told him.  "Sorry.  I might
seem like that sort of girl, because of the job I do.  But I'm not."

   She remembered that he had accepted the disappointment with
understanding, and had assured her that he regarded her with more respect
than any other woman he had ever met.

   And she remembered where, at the time, his hands had been, remembered
that gorgeous moment when he had slid a finger into her ass whilst two
others worked between her legs.  And she remembered the odd tautness in his
voice when he had asked whether, if she wouldn't allow him to make love to
her properly, he could make love to her in a different place.  He hadn't
shocked her, because in the past other men, particularly European men, had
asked her that question, believing the option to be a compromise.  She'd
always said no, because she didn't see it as a compromise but rather as a
violation, and because she was nervous that it would hurt.

   Only Gunther had ever tempted her to say yes.

   In fact, as she busied herself with her morning duties, she found
herself considering the request again.  Favourably.

   After all, he did, she thought, merit some reward.  For his gentlemanly
behaviour.  Didn't he...?

   So if, next time....

   Next time....

   The thought was delicious.

   If, next time, she was still minded not to let him fuck her, then
perhaps, just perhaps...

   Well, just perhaps......

   That night at the club, although no arrangement had been made, she
wasn't surprised to see him in the audience again, and she was disappointed
when he didn't visit her immediately afterwards.  Like a frustrated little
girl, she waited until long after the others had gone.

   The club was open all night as a drinking establishment.  Unusually, she
remained in the dressing room, ordered some wine from the bar, drank a
little too much.

   She had almost given up hope when the knock on the door finally came. 
But even so, she somehow knew that the visitor would be him, and went
eagerly to greet him.

   He had brought her flowers.  An unusual gesture to a woman in her
profession.  She was startled by it.

   "Why, thank you", she said, and kissed him gently on the cheek.  He
coloured slightly.

   He sat and watched her while she located a vase.  Then, when she came to
stand over him, he said, "I was wondering about dinner again."

   "I've eaten", Lucy lied.

   "Ah", he replied, slightly thrown.  "Perhaps a drink then."

   "Not thirsty", she told him, indicating the empty bottle.

   He frowned, then came to the wrong conclusion.  "It was a one night
thing for you, then", he supposed.

   She smiled.  "I don't recall telling you to go", she said.

   The flirtation flustered him.  "I don't understand", he admitted.

   She decided to cut to the chase.  "Never mind", she said huskily. 
"Look, let's go back to my flat."

   His left eyebrow lifted comically.  "Your flat?"

   "Yes", she confirmed.  "I thought that....  Well...  Maybe we can talk
about what didn't happen last night." He weighed the words.  Then he said,
a compliment, "You always surprise me, Lucy."

   "Be surprised later", Lucy warned.  "Talk might mean just that.  Talk. I
haven't decided yet."

   He nodded, accepting the terms.

   Ten minutes later, she guided him into the dowdy living quarters of her
accomodation and closed the door behind her.  Turning on the old fashioned
gaslight, hoping that he wouldn't notice the tatty furniture and peeling
brown wallpaper, she stepped into his arms, tilting her head so that he had
no choice but to bring his lips down onto hers.

   The kiss was scalding.  Instantly, she was wet down where it counted. 
Instantly, she was weak.  Instantly, she was randy.

   Knowing the wanton impression she would give, she pushed her tongue into
his mouth.  Simultaneously, she reached to massage his cock through his
pants with her long fingers, trailing them teasingly from balls to tip.  He
hardened quickly under her touch, the erection jutting into his trousers
almost horizontally, pushing against the heel of her hand.  She thought
that the pressure must be painful, but he made no move to adjust the
position.

   She broke clear of the kiss.  "I'm not burning my boats yet", she
whispered huskily, recognising the weakness of the claim.

   And she turned away, but only to rub her rear against him, to bring his
big arms around her waist.  She felt his thickness press between her
buttocks, a sensation recognisable even through their clothing.  She knew
that if she was going to call a halt, it had better be soon.  But she noted
the shortness of her breathing, and the sticky wetness on her thighs, and
started to understand that there truly was no way out.

   Gunther's lips found her neck, moved up to nibble her ear.  The thrills
were coming in waves now, and she moaned when his right hand snaked upward,
found her breast, started to torment the nipple through her black satin
blouse.  Then his left hand made a similar journey, but dropped lower,
kneading her crotch through her skirt.

   She was lost.  Utterly lost.  Passion was all.  She tugged at the skirt
to help him, lowered it and her underwear over her hips, down to her knees,
left the clothes jumbled there.  As soon as the barrier was gone, the hand
returned to her cunt, skating luxuriously over the slick surface, making
her moan again.

   The clothing fell to the carpet, and she stepped out of it.  Then
Gunther removed her blouse, and she turned, helped him with his shirt.  It
was the first time that she had seen him naked to the waist.  And she was
impressed.  He had a gorgeous body, wiry and powerful, his chest smooth and
hairless.

   Urgently, she went to work on his pants, and within seconds the couple
were entirely naked.  She caressed his long, thick, powerful cock, moving
the foreskin slowly back and forth, so gently that he closed his eyes
momentarily against the pleasure.  "Are you saluting me with that thing,
soldier?", she teased him.

   He didn't answer.  Instead he jammed his mouth against hers again, and
this time his tongue was the more powerful.  He forced it past her lips,
stealing most of her breath.

   He tasted, she thought, rather decadently of schnapps.

   When, eventually, she broke the kiss, she dropped to one knee.  She
smiled up at him, knowing that he would enjoy the anticipation.  Then she
took his erection into her mouth.

   She started slowly.  Working the solid stalk with her fist, she teased
the crown and the eye, enjoying the weight and stiffness, enjoying the
salty pre-come as it oozed across her taste buds.  After a time, she
started to suck the glans, loving the combination of softness and power as
it worked over her lips.  Gunther was shaking, clearly having difficulties,
and it wasn't long before he gently pushed her clear.

   Then he bent to lift her, hoisting her easily into his arms.  "The
bedroom?", he croaked.

   She pointed, feeling deliciously helpless.  He moved in the direction
she had indicated with a lazy grace, but kicked open the door with rather
more determination.

   The bedroom was no better decorated than the living quarters, and she
had left that morning without making the bed.  Still, the light was off,
and she hoped that he would have too many other things on his mind to
notice her bad habits.

   He placed her on the bedsheet and lowered himself next to her.  Then he
kissed her again, luxuriously, languorously.  A hand moved again between
her legs.  It worked delicately, playing all the right chords, composing a
symphony of pleasure for her.

   She halted the kiss, took his face in her hands.  "I still don't want to
fuck, Gunther", she told him.  "I'm not ready for that yet."

   She was lying, of course.  She was more than ready.

   But she wanted something else first.

   With amazing patience and restraint, Gunther pushed his frustration,
which was palpable, aside, accepting the edict, seeing it as a brick wall.

   "I understand", he said.

   Lucy sprang the trap.  "But maybe", she proposed hesitantly, "we can do
what you suggested last night."

   Then, the oddest thing happened.  There was a voice in her head.  A
female voice.  A screaming voice.  Someone else's voice.  "Wrong", it
insisted.  "Wrong, Lucy.  Wrong."

   The voice was impossible to ignore.  It bore authority.  It carried
honesty.  And she found herself suddenly full of doubts.  Doubts about her
sanity, obviously.  But doubts about her decision too.

   Gunther had no such doubts.  His eyes glittered now.  "Are you sure,
Lucy?", he said.  "Really sure?  I mean...  you seemed...  well, reluctant.
Disgusted, even."

   She shook her unwelcome guest away, determined her route in resentment
of the interruption.  "Not disgusted", she assured.  "Or reluctant.  But
nervous, maybe.  And I still am.  But I want to give you something.  You
deserve something."

   He seemed horrified.  "No.  That's not a good enough reason."

   "It isn't the only reason", she conceded.  "It's something I've... 
well...  wanted to try."

   She was caressing his cock with her hand again, and she felt it jerk at
her words.  "Now that reason I do like, Lucy", he said.  "I like that
reason very much indeed."

   She smiled, lowered her eyes as she asked, "Will it hurt?"

   He shook his head.  "Not if...  well, not if you're...  lubricated
enough."

   Her heart was beating like a triphammer.  "And how do we achieve that?",
she breathed.

   "I have some ideas", Gunther advised, and slowly he started to move his
mouth down her body.

   Her breath caught.  This had never happened to her before.  He paused to
tease her nipples with the tip of his tongue.  He trailed warm wetness
across her taut stomach.

   By the time he reached her pussy, she was writhing.

   He pushed his tongue deep inside her body, circling the musculature of
her inner lips.  She was so juicy, so ready, that she could feel warm
liquid running down her buttocks.  Then he moved up to work on her
clitoris, and as he had done the previous evening he led the slick fluid
into the crack of her ass with his finger, riding the digit on the flow to
insert it into the hole.  Her buttocs clenched tightly around the intruder,
making her wonder how she could hope to accomodate his cock if she was
having so much difficulty with this slim visitor.

   Gunther worked the finger deeper.  Her cunt was singing joyfully to her
now, sending tremors through her hips, and she heaved her groin against his
face, jerking wildly.  His chin buried itself in the cleft of her cunt.  He
worked diligently, dredging levels of sensation she would not have dreamed
to seek.

   There came a time when she felt the stirrings of orgasm, but these
dissipated slightly when suddenly he removed the finger, started to smear
her juices around her rectum.

   The moment, she knew, was drawing near.

   He came back up to her, kissed her again.  She tasted her own love fluid
on his lips, sweet and musky.  But then he moved the kiss from her mouth,
took it to her forehead, her nose, her neck, her eyes, simultaneously
stroking her hair.

   "I don't want to hurt you", he whispered.  "If you want me to stop at
any time, just tell me."

   "I'm ready", she told him, a brave assertion.

   "Turn over on your stomach", he requested thickly.

   Lucy did as he asked, and closed her eyes.  His hand moved back between
her legs for a time, dizzying her yet again with its wonderful activities.
Occasionally, he smeared more of her juice into the cleft of her buttocks,
but mainly he concentrated on her cunt.  By now, she was rocking
rhythmically upwards.

   Then he rolled, bringing his arms on either side of her head, his knees
to straddle her hips.  She breathed in sharply, half in anticipation, half
in dread.

   "You're certain?", he asked her, ever concerned.

   "Do it", she breathed.

   She felt the firmness of his erection against her anus, felt pressure
without stretching.

   Desperate for the dance to begin, she pushed up.

   But Gunther was in control.  He worked his cock back and forth on the
slickness he had spread, each sweep opening the hole a little wider, the
continuous action not letting that ground be lost.  So carefully, he
prepared her.  Then, at last, he pressed down.

   The intrusion was pleasant, felt like it had been made with something
less substantial than the head of his erection.  But she knew that it was
that head which was inside her, because the throbbing in the top of her
anal passage had a familiar rhythm.  There was stretching, but it was a
filling rather than uncomfortable experience.

   "I'm going to go deeper", he warned.

   "Okay", she said.

   Spreading her cheeks with the palms of his hands, he exerted steady
force.  A couple of inches more of cock slipped into her, then another half
an inch.  Deeper.

   Just as he'd promised.

   Deeper.....

   Deeper....

   Pain slammed into her spine, sickening her.  She squealed.

   "Oh, stop, Gunther", she pleaded.  "Stop."

   True to his word, he abided by her instruction, was still, neither
advancing nor withdrawing.

   "What is it?", he asked, genuinely concerned.

   "The muscle", she moaned.  "I think you hurt the muscle."

   "I'll come out", he proposed.  "But I'll do it slowly."

   Already, the agony was starting to dissipate.  In a moment, she
believed, they'd be able to carry on.  And she wanted so much to carry on.
"No, don't come out", she panted.  "Just give it a few seconds."

   He spent the waiting time encouraging her.  Caressing her breasts. 
Gently tweaking her nipples.  Reaching beneath her to torment her pussy. 
Pleasure built again, strongly, inexorably.  It wasn't long before
approaching climax despatched the last traces of pain.

   "Try again, Gunther", she moaned.

   "Really?", he responded, clearly uneasy.

   "Really", she said.

   A few seconds passed.  Then, very slowly, he pushed again.

   Immediately, the pain started to return.  Lucy grimaced, rocked up
firmly in reaction.

   And suddenly the barrier was gone, the taut ring of anal muscle popped
once and for all.  Gunther filled her easily then, sliding his thick pole
fully home, his balls settling against her cheeks.

   He started to fuck her, still gently, and she moved against him, loving
the odd impalement.

   "Oh, Lucy", he groaned, delighting her.  Then he added, "I've never felt
anything so tight."

   "Don't come", she begged.  "Gunther, don't come." Something made her say
it.  She didn't know why.  She was quite happy for him to come in that
place, more concerned now with working her pussy.  Her slick fingers,
rather than Gunther's, were doing the job now, and her breath caught as she
drew ever closer to resolution.

   In any event the appeal, which wasn't really her appeal, seemed destined
to be wasted.  Finally, Gunther's chivalry had been overcome by other
considerations.  He had seized her hips and was now ploughing into her with
some force.  Her asshole strained beautifully against the incredible
solidity of the soldier's prick.

   The strokes got harder and harder, faster and faster.  Then,
wonderfully, her climax arrived.

   She stiffened, every nerve dancing with power.  She moaned deep in her
throat, hand working frantically between her thighs.  Her body started to
shake.

   Gunther groaned, and hot semen spurted into her bowels, cementing the
union, increasing the joy of it.  Even in the throes of orgasm, she
shuddered in response, then her body naturally tensed, just in time to
receive a second strong expulsion, sloppy and heavy, deep within her.

   When Gunther finally stilled, and the last ebb of Lucy's release drained
away, she found herself able to do no more than close her eyes.  She was
truly exhausted.  Gunther remained where he was for a time, throbbing in
her passage, then she felt him roll from her, his cock exiting her anus
with a distinctive pop.

   For a brief time, she slept.  When she awoke, he was supported on one
elbow, watching her, something suspiciously like canine devotion in his
eyes.  He had turned on the light.

   "Hi", she purred, because she, of course, was feline.  She'd always
known that.

   "You are beautiful, Lucy", he told her.  "The most beautiful woman I
have ever met."

   She grinned, enjoying the fact that his compliments didn't seem to
embarrass her any more.  "I've changed my mind about something", she said.

   "About what?", he asked.

   "About wanting you to fuck me", Lucy requested, the hard word feeling
right.  "Because I do.  I do want you to fuck me."

   "Lucy", he said.  "It would be my pleasure."

   He turned, started to caress her breasts.  She was flattered to see that
he was already fully erect, a state he had developed merely from observing
her as she slept.

   After a time, he lifted above her, and when he penetrated her, fully, in
a single stroke, it was a luscious, smooth claiming, a certain and
irrevocable connection.  She expected him to take his time, but he was
urgent, and he was fierce, and he seemed desperate.  It was not, as a
result, very long before he made her come a second time, strainingly,
rackingly.

   He was only the third man that she had ever made love to, but he was far
and away the most skilled.  He held back his own climax as she quivered
through hers, only releasing his semen, releasing it in rushing hot gulps,
when he seemed certain that her sensations were starting to ebb.

   He teased his cock from within her, moved off.  She felt wonderful.  She
felt exhausted all over again.  His semen started to dribble from her, and
she loved the warmth of it, the stickiness of it.

   This time, he was the first to drift into sleep.  Lucy was skimming
oblivion, about to follow him into the mists, when there was a knock on the
front door of the residence.

   Confused, unused to visitors at any time, never mind this late in the
evening, she rose, pulled on a dressing gown and went to satisfy her
curiosity.

   Standing stern faced in the hallway was Lucy's landlady, Frau Schmidt,
an unmarried harridan with a mean temper.  In her hand, she was holding an
envelope.  "I do not take kindly, Miss Bennett", she said in German, "to
being raised from my bed in the middle of the night to collect messages for
my tenants."

   Lucy apologised, took the envelope.  Her name was scrawled across the
seal in rather spidery handwriting.

   Frau Schmidt had already turned her back and was waddling down the
corridor.  Nervously, Lucy called her back.  "I wondered if you could tell
me", she said hesitantly, "whether the person who gave you this left a
name."

   "Nobody gave it to me", the woman replied irritably.  "There was an
obscene clattering on the door, but when I opened it nobody was there. 
That...  communication...  had been pushed through the letterbox."

   Lucy nodded.  "I see", she stated.  "Thank you.  Sorry again."

   The woman grunbled as she disappeared into the stairwell.

   Lucy went immediately back into the bedroom, where Gunther was still
asleep, and, curiosity burning, she opened the letter.

   There was a single piece of lined writing paper inside, folded into two.


   She straightened it out, and read what was written there.

   Her reaction was utter confusion.  The message didn't appear to be
addressed to her, despite the envelope.  It read:"Loranna, the game is
ended.  And this will be your last throw of the dice.

   We are the devourers of lives.  Be vigilant.  We are your doom.  We
bring that doom to your very door.

   We are the devourers of lives, Loranna.  Sarah, we are the devourers of
lives.

   We know where you are.

   And we know where you will be."

   Not for me, Lucy thought.  Mad, and not for me.

   Even though she recognised the style of handwriting.

   It was a lot like David Holm's handwriting.

   Very much like David's handwriting.

   Now wasn't that strange?

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