David sighed and followed.Along darkened Downing Street they walked until they came to s small flight of stairs down to a basement door. His guide knocked, and the door opened a crack. Light streamed out. "Yes?" queried a woman's voice. "It's the American Gent, Ma'am — Colonel Ogilvy."The door opened wider and David was ushered in. "Come in, come in" The woman encouraged. "Welcome to Number 1 Storey's Gate — or 'The Dungeon' to its inmates" she laughed. In the light of the flickering globe David recognised his welcomer. "Miss Ive, a pleasure to meet you" "Ooo, aren't you a saucey one!" she simpered as he took her hand and kissed it! "My mum warned me about you Yanks. You can call me Ruth."David had met Ruth two days earlier, when she had come to the American Embassy to confirm David's appoinment. Her looks were nothing to write home about; an aging spinster, was his first assessment. As they had bantered, while he signed various papers she needed, they had bantered, and she had. . . what’s her name . . . Sally. Sally was as ravenous as anybody he’d ever met. It would be rude to let her down, wouldn’t it? Sean’s ego was such that he’d forgotten how and why they’d got together. Later, in the pub, when he was telling everyone about his dazzling ‘swordsmanship’, he’d claim it was all down to his irresistible charm. In truth ‘charm’ had been only a tiny part of it: Sally was fucking him for coke. ‘Yes,’ he grunted, firing into her, never pausing to wonder if pregnancy was still a possibility. Not for one second thinking about anything but firing and firing and firing. Then, registering her lack of orgasm, he grinned again. She’d be supposing she’d had her lot, game over player one. Hadn’t she got a surprise in store! Quickly recovering his rhythm he produced his party trick and carried on . . . and on and on and on, without needing to rest. ‘Brilliant,’ Sally gasped, ‘don’t stop. Whatever you do, don’t stop.’ Sean had no intention of stopping. Naturally gifted,.
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