Not really, but she’s been having a smashing good time over there … and that Savoy Hotel room 212 suite is costing the Reich plenty!
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It continued in London
- Thread starter Barbaria1
- Start date
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Top form '99 - you've certainly hit the ground running my friend!
twonines
LIMERICUS
A novel way for Underwood to carry out a deep probe of Barb`s credentials?
Does Fräulein Mohr have no morals?!?!?!
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
A honest and true spy would of course boldly answer to this question : "Yes I am!" !
Fraulein Mohr on audience at Buckingham Palace? She will need to study all the fine print of protocol for such occasions!
Meanwhile the plot is already getting complicated! I will soon wonder on whose side the bedsheets and the glassware are!
I think I might just go for 'infamous'
One of them, yes...
Is that what 'TBC' stands for?
'To Bed Continuously' ?
Rudy …” Barbara whispered wistfully, glancing down at the blurred but still revealing picture on the front page of the Daily Express.
I hadn't really realised that the 'Express' was such a jolly read back in the thirties! I may be gone a while, I'm just off to sign up for life membership of 'Newpapers.com'
Typical Express. Always on the moral high ground. She's exactly what this country needs right now!
Two Bad Characters
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
'Till Barb Complains'?Is that what 'TBC' stands for?
'To Bed Continuously' ?
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
PeterVl
Magistrate
Cheers to the remarkable contribution of a brilliant artist!
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
settantuno
MUTUS PICTOR
Chapter 03
On the road to Windsor, Thursday, 22nd June, 1939
Barbara peered out the rain-spattered rear side window of Lord Beaufort’s 1937 Austin Norfolk Saloon, but saw little as her mind was elsewhere. Beside her was Beaufort, engaged in making small talk as he casually rested his hot hand on her knee.
She was on her way to an audience with the King of England, a prospect both thrilling and daunting. She knew it was an important step in establishing and popularizing her ‘cover’ as the celebrated refugee from Nazi Germany who had dared to defy the infamous Gestapo. Reinhardt had all but insisted that the audience be arranged. Still, judging from what she had read about the King in the tabloids, some of which had characterized him as narrow-minded, prudish and priggish, she feared she might make a bad impression.
“Don’t be so worried. You’ll do fine,” soothed Beaufort, correctly sussing the reason for her distracted silence and moving his hand up her thigh to both squeeze and pat it. “Lascelles assured me that the King is most eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Who is Lascelles?”
“Ah, forgive me. That’s Sir Alan Lascelles, Assistant Private Secretary to the Sovereign. He’ll be meeting us on arrival, and will brief you on matters of protocol before presenting you to the King.”
“I see.”
“As a matter of fact, I do believe we’ve arrived. And yes, there’s Lascelles coming out to meet us.”
Barbara took in the tall, rather stern-faced individual sporting a Hitler-like upper lip mustache, and sucked in her breath.
As the saloon’s door was opened by a uniformed man wielding a very large umbrella, Lascelles gallantly took her by the hand to assist her as she climbed out.”
“Ah, Fräulein Mohr. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he purred. “And good to see you too, Lord Beaufort! Come we must hurry. I’m afraid the drive here must have taken longer than expected. You’re nearly ten minutes late. Follow me, please, and I’ll do my best to familiarize you with the proper etiquette expected of a commoner in audience with His Majesty.”
“Thank you. That would be most helpful. I do want to make the right impression.”
“Quite. Now it’s really very simple. You are expected to curtsy on meeting him. You must address him as ‘Your Majesty’. Never turn your back on him or walk in front of him, or invade his personal space without being invited to do so. Do not talk to him unless he speaks to you first, and refrain from asking personal questions of any kind.”
“Alright, I believe I can handle that.”
“Splendid. We are about to enter the drawing room where he is awaiting you. Do straighten up and try not to look quite so grim.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Your Majesty, may I present Fräulein Mohr.”
The King, who was sitting behind a desk on which lay several open newspapers, rose to his feet and came around to greet her.
As he approached she performed a curtsy as instructed, regretting at the same moment her fashionably loose and butterfly-sleeved wraparound blouse, which likely presented him with a glimpse of cleavage that was probably quite royally-speaking inappropriate.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle, Fräulein Mohr,” he said slowly and deliberately, his face impassive although she noted where his eyes were fixed. “It’s indeed an honor to meet you. I’ve been reading of your dreadfully harrowing experiences at the hands of the Gestapo and congratulate you on your good fortune in escaping to England.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Perhaps I can offer you some biscuits and tea?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. That sounds lovely.”
“Excellent, please come join me over on the sofa and tell me of your misadventures.”
As she followed him around and past his desk, she couldn’t help but notice a copy of the Daily Express lying on top of the other papers … the one with the front cover photo of her nude with Rudy Weiss in a Hamburg park.
Her heart sank.
Outside the Savoy Hotel, The Strand, City of Westminster, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
“Oh Henry, was that really the King?” The words were said as a question but they were very much rhetorical.
Barbara had been taken to Windsor in the luxury of Lord Beaufort’s personal motor car, but, and much to Beaufort’s disappointment, Henry had been there to meet her afterwards, holding open the door of a waiting black cab as she exited the castle driveway accompanied by Sir Alan Lascelles.
Captain Underwood laughed as he paid for the taxi outside the Savoy, and took her hand to lead her inside the hotel reception. He thought she looked ravishing and was pleased that Barbara, as she recalled her Royal audience, had apparently charmed the King to perfection.
“You were perfect darling …” They had moved to using terms of endearment rather quickly, but Henry was very clearly falling head over heels with his Teutonic lover. “… the way you say you spoke about your father and his funding of high priority Nazi projects must have sent him into raptures.”
“Oh do you really think so Henry, I mean you don’t think he was distracted by the nude pictures of me on the front page of his newspaper?”
Underwood smirked. “Distracted maybe, but certainly not in a way that would put him off you. I feel that Major Grand will be in touch first thing tomorrow about you taking on a role with the SIS.”
Barbara wound her arms around his neck. “Me … a spy? Oh, don’t be silly Henry.”
“I’m not being silly Barbara, I think … no, in fact I’m certain that will happen.”
“I’m so excited …” she gasped as they reached the lift.
Henry glanced down at the cleavage of her low-cut butterfly sleeved wrap around blouse and grinned …
“I want you to make love to me Captain underwood,” she purred into his ear as the lift began its ascent.
They burst into room 212 with Henry slamming the door shut behind them as Barbara ripped his shirt off. Something about it, the intensity, the drama of the last few days and the fact that she had just met the King made everything feel so much more heightened.
Fuck everything that had happened, she thought, fuck Reinhardt, fuck her dad, fuck this thing she was now doing for Himmler, fuck all of it because right now what she wanted, what she needed was him, Henry, to be fucking her, claiming her, pounding into her already.
Within seconds they were virtually naked, practically devouring each other. Every touch, every second his body was hard against hers made her heart race more and her skin felt aflame, on fire, burning with a need for him.
Barbara wrapped her legs around her lover as he fell onto the couch with her on top, his fingers gripping her skin, clutching at her silk covered ass, fondling her breasts, and she let out a moan.
“Fuck me, Henry.” She gasped into his ear.
“With pleasure.” He stated ripping her French cut Cami-knickers off and ramming into her so hard she felt her eyes roll back into her head.
She cried out, feeling how much he wanted her, how incredible he his cock felt too.
Henry ran his mouth across her skin, nibbling at her neck, biting gently into her.
“You’re so wet.” He groaned. “So … bloody perfect, Fräulein Barbara Mohr.”
She grinned before grabbing his face and kissing him.
And then she sat up, gyrating her hips, riding him, taking control and he watched her as if entranced, running his hands down her body, admiring every inch of his gorgeous lover as his impaled thrusts grew deeper, harder, more ferocious.
Barbara shut her eyes, writhing against him, grinding her body into his, and Henry moved his touch down between her thighs, to her clit as he massaged the engorged nub in rhythm with her movements.
“Henry.” She gasped, reaching down, grabbing his shoulders. He rolled her over, and twisted their positions, slamming her body face down against the soft leather of the couch, but she didn’t care, she needed him, wanted him, and that was all that mattered in that moment.
“Fuck me harder.”
“Cum for me Barb.” He said and she moaned again.
“I’m so close. I’m so…” She gasped before letting it out and screaming as her body jerked beneath his and he thrust harder, driving, pounding faster before he finally came, collapsing on top of her.
“Scheiße.” She gasped, still laying there, still crushed beneath him, sprawled across the couch and feeling the pooling perspiration of them both acting as an adhesive between them.
She shifted and rolled over to face him, seeing the intensity of his gaze watching her.
“Maybe I should get you to meet the King more often if that’s the reward I get,” he grinned.
“Oh Henry, silly, I like what we just did. Don’t consider it to be a reward. I wanted you, I really, really wanted you.” Her arms snaked out and wound around his neck as their mouths met.
TBC
On the road to Windsor, Thursday, 22nd June, 1939
Barbara peered out the rain-spattered rear side window of Lord Beaufort’s 1937 Austin Norfolk Saloon, but saw little as her mind was elsewhere. Beside her was Beaufort, engaged in making small talk as he casually rested his hot hand on her knee.
She was on her way to an audience with the King of England, a prospect both thrilling and daunting. She knew it was an important step in establishing and popularizing her ‘cover’ as the celebrated refugee from Nazi Germany who had dared to defy the infamous Gestapo. Reinhardt had all but insisted that the audience be arranged. Still, judging from what she had read about the King in the tabloids, some of which had characterized him as narrow-minded, prudish and priggish, she feared she might make a bad impression.
“Don’t be so worried. You’ll do fine,” soothed Beaufort, correctly sussing the reason for her distracted silence and moving his hand up her thigh to both squeeze and pat it. “Lascelles assured me that the King is most eager to make your acquaintance.”
“Who is Lascelles?”
“Ah, forgive me. That’s Sir Alan Lascelles, Assistant Private Secretary to the Sovereign. He’ll be meeting us on arrival, and will brief you on matters of protocol before presenting you to the King.”
“I see.”
“As a matter of fact, I do believe we’ve arrived. And yes, there’s Lascelles coming out to meet us.”
Barbara took in the tall, rather stern-faced individual sporting a Hitler-like upper lip mustache, and sucked in her breath.
As the saloon’s door was opened by a uniformed man wielding a very large umbrella, Lascelles gallantly took her by the hand to assist her as she climbed out.”
“Ah, Fräulein Mohr. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he purred. “And good to see you too, Lord Beaufort! Come we must hurry. I’m afraid the drive here must have taken longer than expected. You’re nearly ten minutes late. Follow me, please, and I’ll do my best to familiarize you with the proper etiquette expected of a commoner in audience with His Majesty.”
“Thank you. That would be most helpful. I do want to make the right impression.”
“Quite. Now it’s really very simple. You are expected to curtsy on meeting him. You must address him as ‘Your Majesty’. Never turn your back on him or walk in front of him, or invade his personal space without being invited to do so. Do not talk to him unless he speaks to you first, and refrain from asking personal questions of any kind.”
“Alright, I believe I can handle that.”
“Splendid. We are about to enter the drawing room where he is awaiting you. Do straighten up and try not to look quite so grim.”
“Yes, sorry.”
“Your Majesty, may I present Fräulein Mohr.”
The King, who was sitting behind a desk on which lay several open newspapers, rose to his feet and came around to greet her.
As he approached she performed a curtsy as instructed, regretting at the same moment her fashionably loose and butterfly-sleeved wraparound blouse, which likely presented him with a glimpse of cleavage that was probably quite royally-speaking inappropriate.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle, Fräulein Mohr,” he said slowly and deliberately, his face impassive although she noted where his eyes were fixed. “It’s indeed an honor to meet you. I’ve been reading of your dreadfully harrowing experiences at the hands of the Gestapo and congratulate you on your good fortune in escaping to England.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.”
“Perhaps I can offer you some biscuits and tea?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. That sounds lovely.”
“Excellent, please come join me over on the sofa and tell me of your misadventures.”
As she followed him around and past his desk, she couldn’t help but notice a copy of the Daily Express lying on top of the other papers … the one with the front cover photo of her nude with Rudy Weiss in a Hamburg park.
Her heart sank.
Outside the Savoy Hotel, The Strand, City of Westminster, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
“Oh Henry, was that really the King?” The words were said as a question but they were very much rhetorical.
Barbara had been taken to Windsor in the luxury of Lord Beaufort’s personal motor car, but, and much to Beaufort’s disappointment, Henry had been there to meet her afterwards, holding open the door of a waiting black cab as she exited the castle driveway accompanied by Sir Alan Lascelles.
Captain Underwood laughed as he paid for the taxi outside the Savoy, and took her hand to lead her inside the hotel reception. He thought she looked ravishing and was pleased that Barbara, as she recalled her Royal audience, had apparently charmed the King to perfection.
“You were perfect darling …” They had moved to using terms of endearment rather quickly, but Henry was very clearly falling head over heels with his Teutonic lover. “… the way you say you spoke about your father and his funding of high priority Nazi projects must have sent him into raptures.”
“Oh do you really think so Henry, I mean you don’t think he was distracted by the nude pictures of me on the front page of his newspaper?”
Underwood smirked. “Distracted maybe, but certainly not in a way that would put him off you. I feel that Major Grand will be in touch first thing tomorrow about you taking on a role with the SIS.”
Barbara wound her arms around his neck. “Me … a spy? Oh, don’t be silly Henry.”
“I’m not being silly Barbara, I think … no, in fact I’m certain that will happen.”
“I’m so excited …” she gasped as they reached the lift.
Henry glanced down at the cleavage of her low-cut butterfly sleeved wrap around blouse and grinned …
“I want you to make love to me Captain underwood,” she purred into his ear as the lift began its ascent.
They burst into room 212 with Henry slamming the door shut behind them as Barbara ripped his shirt off. Something about it, the intensity, the drama of the last few days and the fact that she had just met the King made everything feel so much more heightened.
Fuck everything that had happened, she thought, fuck Reinhardt, fuck her dad, fuck this thing she was now doing for Himmler, fuck all of it because right now what she wanted, what she needed was him, Henry, to be fucking her, claiming her, pounding into her already.
Within seconds they were virtually naked, practically devouring each other. Every touch, every second his body was hard against hers made her heart race more and her skin felt aflame, on fire, burning with a need for him.
Barbara wrapped her legs around her lover as he fell onto the couch with her on top, his fingers gripping her skin, clutching at her silk covered ass, fondling her breasts, and she let out a moan.
“Fuck me, Henry.” She gasped into his ear.
“With pleasure.” He stated ripping her French cut Cami-knickers off and ramming into her so hard she felt her eyes roll back into her head.
She cried out, feeling how much he wanted her, how incredible he his cock felt too.
Henry ran his mouth across her skin, nibbling at her neck, biting gently into her.
“You’re so wet.” He groaned. “So … bloody perfect, Fräulein Barbara Mohr.”
She grinned before grabbing his face and kissing him.
And then she sat up, gyrating her hips, riding him, taking control and he watched her as if entranced, running his hands down her body, admiring every inch of his gorgeous lover as his impaled thrusts grew deeper, harder, more ferocious.
Barbara shut her eyes, writhing against him, grinding her body into his, and Henry moved his touch down between her thighs, to her clit as he massaged the engorged nub in rhythm with her movements.
“Henry.” She gasped, reaching down, grabbing his shoulders. He rolled her over, and twisted their positions, slamming her body face down against the soft leather of the couch, but she didn’t care, she needed him, wanted him, and that was all that mattered in that moment.
“Fuck me harder.”
“Cum for me Barb.” He said and she moaned again.
“I’m so close. I’m so…” She gasped before letting it out and screaming as her body jerked beneath his and he thrust harder, driving, pounding faster before he finally came, collapsing on top of her.
“Scheiße.” She gasped, still laying there, still crushed beneath him, sprawled across the couch and feeling the pooling perspiration of them both acting as an adhesive between them.
She shifted and rolled over to face him, seeing the intensity of his gaze watching her.
“Maybe I should get you to meet the King more often if that’s the reward I get,” he grinned.
“Oh Henry, silly, I like what we just did. Don’t consider it to be a reward. I wanted you, I really, really wanted you.” Her arms snaked out and wound around his neck as their mouths met.
TBC
Loxuru
Graf von Kreuzigung
And refrain of complaining!
"Trust me, I am British!"
"My name is Mohr, Barb Mohr!"
Fossy
SEXPIOGENTUS
Chapter 04
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
“How did it go, Alan?” Major Grand had called his long-time friend Sir Alan Lascelles.
“Well, it seems that the King was … erm, shall we say, very taken with Fräulein Mohr.”
“Oh, so that is good news?” His words were asked as a question.
“Well yes,” Sir Alan responded, “… and no.” He added.
“Oh?”
“The King is concerned that he is being guided and influenced by her looks, and I must say Grand, she looked particularly fetching in this loose wrap around thingy. At one point she leaned forward and our poor Monarch received an eyeful like never before!”
Major Grand laughed.
“So?” the Major asked in an open-ended manner.
“So, and especially because of the implications of the lurid newspaper article, he wants you to arrange to have her interrogated, and I mean properly interrogated Grand, so that we can be absolutely certain that she retains no Nazi tendencies. We have made the Prime Minister aware and needless to say that you have full carte blanche to make her talk … that is if she has anything to say under duress, which we all hope she doesn’t of course. It goes without saying that the King has never suggested this at all, and it is entirely your idea Grand. You do understand that don't you?”
“Yes, Sir Alan, I understand.”
Wharton Hotel, 14 Argyle Street, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
Reinhardt lay on the bed smoking and observing the movements of the whore he’d just fucked as she languidly attended to pulling on and adjusting her stockings. It occurred to him that she had a very nice ass.
But that was only a passing thought as his true attention was focused on the events of earlier that day. It had been a day spent like most others since he and Barbara had arrived together in England … time spent in his ‘cover’ role of Aron Bernstein either tailing her or escorting her as she navigated her way through London high society.
On this day he had hired a taxi to follow her out to Windsor and back again, and had felt a sense of chagrin when she emerged from her audience with the King and rather than return with Lord Beaufort, she had gotten into a car with that damned Englishman, Underwood!
Reinhardt had been concerned for some time now over the seemingly ever present, Henry Underwood. The man had first been introduced to Reinhardt and Barbara back in May by Lord Beaufort. And he had claimed at the time to work for the government. But Reinhardt had since managed to link him to British Intelligence, and suspected that his interest in Barbara might well be more than romantic.
Reinhardt had duly communicated that to Berlin, where the powers-that-be thought it might present opportunities. He had then dutifully conveyed that to Barbara, who had scoffed, stating that she found Underwood quite dashing and enjoyed his company.
That too had raised Reinhardt’s hackles. He hated to admit it, but the attention he observed Barbara lavishing on Underwood made him jealous. That was unprofessional, he well knew. His duty and mission as a German SD officer was to manage Barbara and her intelligence gathering activities, not to fall in love with her!
Yet, he could not deny his feelings of the heart. Indeed, it was exactly those feelings that had prompted him to discreetly follow Barbara and Underwood into the lobby of the Savoy, where he overheard her exclaim as she brazenly embraced Underwood in front of the reception desk, “Me … a spy? Oh, don’t be silly Henry.”
“I’m not being silly Barbara, I think … no, in fact I’m certain that will happen!” he had assured her.
“I’m so excited …” Barbara had gasped, embracing him as they took the lift.
After allowing a decent interval of time, Reinhardt too had taken the lift and made his way to room 212, outside of which he leaned in close to the door to listen.
The nature of the sounds emanating from within the room were not what he’d wanted to hear. Barbara and Underwood were quite obviously having sex!
“Fuck me, Henry.” he’d heard her exclaim breathlessly.
“With pleasure,” Underwood had replied.
And moments later Barb had cried out. It had been unmistakably the kind of cry that a woman might make on penetration. And that had been followed by what seemed to be a lot of rustling about and heavy breathing.
Then he’d heard the bed squeak loudly … and Barbara squeal. Followed by Underwood breathlessly announcing. “You’re so wet … So … bloody perfect, Fräulein Barbara Mohr.”
“Fuck me harder,” she had demanded.
“Cum for me Barb,” he’d replied.
But at just that moment Reinhardt had been forced to step back as a hotel maid, carrying an armful of bedding and towels, had appeared at the far end of the corridor. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he’d pivoted and walked nonchalantly in her direction as though he had just come from a room and was headed for the lift.
He’d nearly reached the lift when he’d heard Barb scream … a scream so loud that it had caused the maid to stop dead in her tracks and stare at the door to room 212, before turning towards Reinhardt, raising her eyebrows and smirking.
He grinned back.
Once the maid had disappeared into a room further down the corridor, he’d cautiously made his way back to outside the door to room 212.
He’d decided after a short listen that they must have finished for there was little sound coming from within, and that he’d best leave before the maid returned.
“Tomorrow night, then dearie?” said the whore, breaking his reverie. She had by then fully dressed and was about to leave.
“Huh? Ah … no thanks. I’ve … uh … other plans,” he stammered.
“Suit yourself, love, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. Just ask for Helen.”
“I do and I will.”
He followed her to the door in order to lock it as she left.
Returning to the bed, he sat on the edge and pondered what he should do on the morrow.
Should he report all of that he’d overheard at the Savoy to Berlin? Or should he have a serious talk with Barbara, reminding her again of her true mission and of what might happen to her … and quite possibly her father … should she be foolish enough to stray off course? And warn her again … not that he hadn’t already … that Underwood was not to be trusted?
TBC
SIS Headquarters. Section D, Century House, 54 Broadway, Westminster, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
“How did it go, Alan?” Major Grand had called his long-time friend Sir Alan Lascelles.
“Well, it seems that the King was … erm, shall we say, very taken with Fräulein Mohr.”
“Oh, so that is good news?” His words were asked as a question.
“Well yes,” Sir Alan responded, “… and no.” He added.
“Oh?”
“The King is concerned that he is being guided and influenced by her looks, and I must say Grand, she looked particularly fetching in this loose wrap around thingy. At one point she leaned forward and our poor Monarch received an eyeful like never before!”
Major Grand laughed.
“So?” the Major asked in an open-ended manner.
“So, and especially because of the implications of the lurid newspaper article, he wants you to arrange to have her interrogated, and I mean properly interrogated Grand, so that we can be absolutely certain that she retains no Nazi tendencies. We have made the Prime Minister aware and needless to say that you have full carte blanche to make her talk … that is if she has anything to say under duress, which we all hope she doesn’t of course. It goes without saying that the King has never suggested this at all, and it is entirely your idea Grand. You do understand that don't you?”
“Yes, Sir Alan, I understand.”
Wharton Hotel, 14 Argyle Street, London, Thursday, June 22nd 1939
Reinhardt lay on the bed smoking and observing the movements of the whore he’d just fucked as she languidly attended to pulling on and adjusting her stockings. It occurred to him that she had a very nice ass.
But that was only a passing thought as his true attention was focused on the events of earlier that day. It had been a day spent like most others since he and Barbara had arrived together in England … time spent in his ‘cover’ role of Aron Bernstein either tailing her or escorting her as she navigated her way through London high society.
On this day he had hired a taxi to follow her out to Windsor and back again, and had felt a sense of chagrin when she emerged from her audience with the King and rather than return with Lord Beaufort, she had gotten into a car with that damned Englishman, Underwood!
Reinhardt had been concerned for some time now over the seemingly ever present, Henry Underwood. The man had first been introduced to Reinhardt and Barbara back in May by Lord Beaufort. And he had claimed at the time to work for the government. But Reinhardt had since managed to link him to British Intelligence, and suspected that his interest in Barbara might well be more than romantic.
Reinhardt had duly communicated that to Berlin, where the powers-that-be thought it might present opportunities. He had then dutifully conveyed that to Barbara, who had scoffed, stating that she found Underwood quite dashing and enjoyed his company.
That too had raised Reinhardt’s hackles. He hated to admit it, but the attention he observed Barbara lavishing on Underwood made him jealous. That was unprofessional, he well knew. His duty and mission as a German SD officer was to manage Barbara and her intelligence gathering activities, not to fall in love with her!
Yet, he could not deny his feelings of the heart. Indeed, it was exactly those feelings that had prompted him to discreetly follow Barbara and Underwood into the lobby of the Savoy, where he overheard her exclaim as she brazenly embraced Underwood in front of the reception desk, “Me … a spy? Oh, don’t be silly Henry.”
“I’m not being silly Barbara, I think … no, in fact I’m certain that will happen!” he had assured her.
“I’m so excited …” Barbara had gasped, embracing him as they took the lift.
After allowing a decent interval of time, Reinhardt too had taken the lift and made his way to room 212, outside of which he leaned in close to the door to listen.
The nature of the sounds emanating from within the room were not what he’d wanted to hear. Barbara and Underwood were quite obviously having sex!
“Fuck me, Henry.” he’d heard her exclaim breathlessly.
“With pleasure,” Underwood had replied.
And moments later Barb had cried out. It had been unmistakably the kind of cry that a woman might make on penetration. And that had been followed by what seemed to be a lot of rustling about and heavy breathing.
Then he’d heard the bed squeak loudly … and Barbara squeal. Followed by Underwood breathlessly announcing. “You’re so wet … So … bloody perfect, Fräulein Barbara Mohr.”
“Fuck me harder,” she had demanded.
“Cum for me Barb,” he’d replied.
But at just that moment Reinhardt had been forced to step back as a hotel maid, carrying an armful of bedding and towels, had appeared at the far end of the corridor. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he’d pivoted and walked nonchalantly in her direction as though he had just come from a room and was headed for the lift.
He’d nearly reached the lift when he’d heard Barb scream … a scream so loud that it had caused the maid to stop dead in her tracks and stare at the door to room 212, before turning towards Reinhardt, raising her eyebrows and smirking.
He grinned back.
Once the maid had disappeared into a room further down the corridor, he’d cautiously made his way back to outside the door to room 212.
He’d decided after a short listen that they must have finished for there was little sound coming from within, and that he’d best leave before the maid returned.
“Tomorrow night, then dearie?” said the whore, breaking his reverie. She had by then fully dressed and was about to leave.
“Huh? Ah … no thanks. I’ve … uh … other plans,” he stammered.
“Suit yourself, love, but if you change your mind you know where to find me. Just ask for Helen.”
“I do and I will.”
He followed her to the door in order to lock it as she left.
Returning to the bed, he sat on the edge and pondered what he should do on the morrow.
Should he report all of that he’d overheard at the Savoy to Berlin? Or should he have a serious talk with Barbara, reminding her again of her true mission and of what might happen to her … and quite possibly her father … should she be foolish enough to stray off course? And warn her again … not that he hadn’t already … that Underwood was not to be trusted?
TBC
