Dean dialed a number, the number of the man who had brought him the message. ‘Dean! I thought you’d be calling. Business or pleasure?’ The voice on the other end of the phone chuckled. ‘Perhaps both.’ ‘I thought so, going to make contact again, eh?’ ‘Apparently.’ ‘Come by the office in mid-morning. June will work up something for you.’ The receiver clicked in Dean’s ear. It was quiet in the house now, his family asleep. Dean leaned back in the big chair, and half-closed his eyes. 1970 – the Nixon Era Dean was in Hamburg. THEY were in Hamburg. He and Michelle Brisson were meeting there on a shared mission– each to contact the other on behalf of their prickly countries’ intelligence interests. Strictly business, get up there from Berlin, define some mutual objectives, and get back. That was the agenda, but it was under the cover of a script that called for them to be lovers from some ill-defined time before. The tawny-haired Frenchwoman had come up on the train from Bremen, on her. 'Bend', he grunted, as my ass came perpendicular to the railings separating out hot bodies, I bent as ordered, to weak to resist, and cursed my aching body for allowing itself to be defiled by this little brown man.He pulled his fingers from my swollen cunt and reinserted them back inside, this time curling them behind my pubis bone, hooking me in position, and within seconds his cock head was centred on my anus, his fat bulbous head already pushing into it, 'Shit', he said forcibly.I was being stretched, and the pain of having your ass penetrated without any hint of lubrication was beginning to tell, 'Shit', he said again, the aggression in his voice, hinted at his frustration at not getting his cock glans inside my bum, my sphincter proving too tight, and his shaft bending under the strain.He called shit again, and I squeezed with all my might as if about to release the contents of my digested breakfast, over his cock, of course by doing this my anus would open up and he could.
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