. feather-light...softas silk. Your unencumbered palm brushes against my thigh. I sigh softly.Did the sound touch you in that special place where only I can reach?I dip the stopper once more. Your hand trembles. "Don't spill," I whisperagain, as I place a second drop on my manicured digit. Then slowly, youreyes following my every move, I slip my finger between my breasts...sofirm...so prominent in their black lace bustier. I hear you groan."Don't spill," I repeat, my voice a caress.I dip again.This time I part my thighs, raising my foot upward between your stiffeninglegs, and bringing it to rest on the outside of your hip.A single drop. Pristine and perfect.Slowly my finger lowers, between my parted limbs, and I trail a thin lineof the aromatic moisture along my inner thigh.You dip your head, inhaling the heady aroma of sex and roses...yourimpatience a thing of the past...replaced by a more acute sense ofurgency...but I haven't finished...not yet.I dip a final time...one last. Clayton Albright had lost all of his clearances, and upon his release from the hospital was going to answer a lot of questions. Someone with real rank was going to decide if he was going to be able to quietly retire with benefits or go to jail with none of the above.Another meeting that was flagged as important and mandatory was with the NIA (National Intelligence Agency) at the White House on Monday morning. The big dogs were wanting to know what I knew about Korea; the how and when.They were already headhunting to find a scapegoat to cover high level asses for the Hammond Baines affair. It sounded almost like a possible movie title to me.By the time I had finished looking at just the important things, we were in the landing pattern at Morton Field. It was back to the heavy security again. There had been another threat called in while we were gone; it came in from another burn phone.“If you think all that heavy security will save you from Allah’s fury you are mistaken. Your days of.
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