Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Unfortunately as I stated, the CIA censor confiscated the role and all the other prints. He said he was going to destroy then of of respect. So iI guess they're gone forever.
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The Agent, The Girl, and the Fidelistas
- Thread starter Praefectus Praetorio
- Start date
windar
Teller of Tales
1860s? Wow, when he was on Law and Order he barely looked a day over 100
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
He was very well preserved. Barbaria1 goes for older men, much! older men! That's why I'm her favorite. What young cupcake wouldn't love a Septuagenarian?1860s? Wow, when he was on Law and Order he barely looked a day over 100
iPhone screens are small. Give me a break, will you Goldman!1860s? Wow, when he was on Law and Order he barely looked a day over 100
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
That's why God gave you little girls little fingers, aww so cute!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Well that lying Censor Bastard!
It turns out that after the CIA censor confiscated the camera and roll, they discovered and additional roll hidden in the camera and also made their own prints. I'm still trying to get the complete set, but here are a few more of the sexiest girls I ever shared a threesome with
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
And some more!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
What Moore can I say?
No complaints here?
No complaints here?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter Eight
Censor’s note: Well, at least the sex-obsessed writer seems to have gotten it out of his system for a while and gotten back on the plot and the facts. No security issues noted here.
The next five days were a kind of dream in a fairyland far away. (I hear the sniggering. Remember, in 1960, in the CIA, fairyland was like Peter Pan and Neverland. Fairies of the other kind were strictly a concern over at the FBI [and I gather, Yale]). The October Caribbean weather was perfect; cloudless skies, moderate temps, gentle breezes. We anchored at a different spot each evening and usually made love on the deck or in bed. We slept late every morning, often made love before getting up, then snorkeled until the early afternoon. The water in Montego Bay back then was crystal clear and the fish and coral spectacular. A photo I got with one of the Agency’s new marine cameras. One of the few times Barb wore a one piece.
Yes, I know, GREAT ass and legs, that’s Barb! Most of the time she wore the White Bikini, Man, I loved snorkeling right behind her, watching her legs scissor with her flippers, the muscles of her thighs, rippling smooth and lithe, and then that big, fat, ….that small and tight ass of hers twitching and wiggling! Snorkeling is a great spectator sport! I wish she’d had time to learn scuba (that’s Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, for those not familiar with the aquatic life and our modern use of acronyms), those scuba people would have loved her bikini.
Unfortunately, all the tourist development since then has caused substantial waste runoff, some untreated. They have recently initiated some environmental monitoring, so the situation may improve sometime in the future. I hear in a few years they will be able to establish a Marine Park Trust to try to preserve part of the Bay.
Of course, when we were far from shore, Barb sometimes didn’t wear a swim suit
In the afternoon, we went ashore and cruised the bars. The women tended to be all over me, but I was taken. Barb was like honey to the flies for the men, and she tactfully flirted with them all. We spent like drunken sailors (Bless the CIA and the Yale twits!) and freely discussed with everyone who would listen our plans to go next to Cuba.
I spotted Cuban agents several times at the bars, listening closely to us from a distance. It was all going according to plan. But two things worried me.
First, I got the same vibrations that {Kathy} had. No evidence or proof, but something just didn’t seem right. Seriously, as an experienced agent, I can sense these things.
The other was that Barb had ceased making rapid progress leaning things, except possibly which were her favorites among the many tropical drinks she sampled. The idyllic location, the freely flowing food and drink and booze, and the incredibly accomplished lover she slept with all seems to turn part of her brain to mush.
After I spotted Cuban agents, I would explain to her who they were and what gave them away. But she never got it and couldn’t even recognize the same agent the next day. This wasn’t good and convinced me that she would stay on the boat some of the times I went into Cuba to make contact. There she wouldn’t have to stop agents.
The evening of our last day, we went back to The Shipwreck for going away drinks. Everyone was sad to see us go, especially Barb, who had made many conquests, male and female. I shook hands with Jimmy and gave him an extra obscene tip (thanks CIA). {Kathy} stopped by briefly, it was a busy night, a large Elks lodge was staying at the big hotel. Elks always liked {Kathy}. But she came away to see us off. As we left she kissed us both good-bye – open-mouth, deep-tongue, extended kisses. What A Lady!
We went back to the boat, made love, and got an early bedtime for a good start in the morning.
Next morning, October 7, 1960, exactly on schedule, we weighed anchor and set sail for Cuba, for Bahía de Cochinos, the Bay of Pigs, in South Central Cuba. A trip of about two days.
Again, we were blessed with perfect weather. Clear skies, small waves 2-3’, and a fresh trade wind out of due west at 5 on the beaufort scale (that is about 15 knots for you landlubbers, and about 17 miles per hour for those in the far interior like Minnesota). I made for Cienfuegos, to stay east of the Caymans, where we could make land and then make our way leisurely west to Bahía de Cochinos.
Sailing close-hauled (keeping the sheets tight to hold the boom close on board, the boom is..aww the hell with it. If you want to know, look it up), about 45 degrees from windward, we were able to make good speed but were kept busy trimming. Thankfully, Barb’s brain without a constant supply of Mai Tai’s, Mojito’s, Daiquiris, Painkillers, Rum Runners, and the ever-popular, but oh so dangerous Rum Punch, seemed to have recovered enough to bring back the sailing skills she’d learned.
To a true wind sailor, there is nothing better (maybe not even sex) than sailing blue water, close hauled with a fresh wind on a calm sea. You constantly hear and feel the wind as you work the wheel to maintain the tack and simultaneously trim the sails to avoid luffing. It was near perfect.
On the way, I explained once more to Barb about our contacts.
{Eula} came from a fiercely Anti-Castro family. Both her parents rebelled when the first anti-democratic and anti-freedom measures were imposed. Both were taken away by Che Guevara’s secret police, never seen again, presumed dead. {Eula} and her brother {Windar} were left to try to eke out an existence in the poor rural area around the impoverished town of Playa Larga at the northern tip of the Bay of Pigs. {Windar} had to take menial, sporatic jobs, and {Eula} worked at the only thing open to a woman who was also an enemy of the state; she became a prostitute. Two years earlier, I had recruited them. It was easy, they hated the Fidelistas with a dark and burning hatred.
{Windar} was 22, and big. 6’ 1” or 2”, 200 lbs, dark with black hair and big muscles. He had the energy and passion of youth, and was quite clever, which made him easy to train, and he took to my teaching that he couldn’t slip up or he would endanger his sister.
{Eula} was just 19, but very tall and slender, almost 5’ 7” with modest, firm breasts. She was fairer than her brother with very dark and thick brown hair which she wore shoulder length. Her eyes were a rich brown and her smile, always full of teeth, was innocent and winning. She was very bright and quick with a strong defiant streak. I thought her gutsy rebelliousness combined with her guttural hatred of Castro made her a serious threat to any Fidelista. For that matter, I wondered if some of her customers, coming for a nice submissive whore, were surprised and taught to toe her line. In New York City, with her size and grit, she would have made a fortune as a dominatrix.
We made excellent time, and midday on the second day out, we sighted land. Through superb dead-reckoning navigation (yes, and a fair amount of luck) we struck land just where I had hoped, about 10 miles west of the entrance to Bahia de Cienfuegos at Jagua. From there we turned west and, keeping well off the lee shore, tacked by sail and motor toward the Bay of Pigs.
While Barb and I sat together at the wheel, I told her about {Eula} and her name. Her birth name was Gabriela, meaning God is my Strength. That was very appropriate due to her strength of character and her strong Catholic Faith. But when she was just in her teens, she had read the story of the martyrdom of Saint Eulalia of Barcelona. From then on, she insisted on being called Eulalia, or more simply, {Eula} the Spanish short version.
Saint Eulalia, who died in the early fourth century CE, is the co-patron Saint of Barcelona. She was a Roman Christian Virgin during the reign of emperor Diocletian.
{Eulalia} was safe at her home out of town, but heard of Judge Dacian forcing Christians to worship pagan gods. She marched into his court and insisted he stop. At first the Judge was amused by this young woman being so defiant, and tried to flatter and cajole her. But she persisted and insulted the pagan gods even more.
Exasperated, Dacian ordered her tortured to recant her Christianity. Tradition says that the Romans subjected her to thirteen tortures. These included placing her in a barrel with broken glass and rolling her down the street; whipping; tearing her skin in strips; walking barefoot on hot coals; branding her with hot irons; boiling oil; molten lead; locked in box with fleas; crucified on an X cross; having her breasts cut off or burned off (accounts vary)
Finally, to kill her (she was still alive at that point??), she was decapitated. At that moment a white dove flew out of her neck and all the torturers and guards fled in fear!
Our {Eula} found the story of Eulalia thrilling when she read about a girl at much the age she was; it excited her that a girl her age could be so bold and brave and be tortured in such - er - arousing ways!
Barb was silent for quite a while after I finished (a rare thing for her). Finally, she said, “I can’t wait to meet her! We have to be careful to protect her. That girl is special!”
“I know," I said, "I’d give my life to protect her, as I would for you.”
Five miles east of the entrance to the Bay of Pigs, a Cuban patrol boat approached and ordered us to heave-to. Two rather disreputable members of the Fidelistas came aboard and looked at our Canadian papers, which they found to be in order. They then did a cursory inspection of the boat. Since Barb was wearing her most revealing sailor outfit, they spent more time inspecting her than the boat. I had to admit that, at least at this moment, the idea of the Yale boys to send Barb along did aid the mission. They finished and asked us our plans while trying not very subtlety to look down Barb's shirt. We told them we were going to the Bay of Pigs and they waved us on our way.
The inspection had been cursory and without real threat. But having Fidelistas carrying their weapons onboard our boat, hammered home that that the game was now afoot.
At 3:45 in the afternoon on October 8, 1960, we rounded the headland and sailed into the calm, peaceful waters of Bahía de Cochinos. It was time for us and the mission to get serious!
Censor’s note: Well, at least the sex-obsessed writer seems to have gotten it out of his system for a while and gotten back on the plot and the facts. No security issues noted here.
The next five days were a kind of dream in a fairyland far away. (I hear the sniggering. Remember, in 1960, in the CIA, fairyland was like Peter Pan and Neverland. Fairies of the other kind were strictly a concern over at the FBI [and I gather, Yale]). The October Caribbean weather was perfect; cloudless skies, moderate temps, gentle breezes. We anchored at a different spot each evening and usually made love on the deck or in bed. We slept late every morning, often made love before getting up, then snorkeled until the early afternoon. The water in Montego Bay back then was crystal clear and the fish and coral spectacular. A photo I got with one of the Agency’s new marine cameras. One of the few times Barb wore a one piece.
Yes, I know, GREAT ass and legs, that’s Barb! Most of the time she wore the White Bikini, Man, I loved snorkeling right behind her, watching her legs scissor with her flippers, the muscles of her thighs, rippling smooth and lithe, and then that big, fat, ….that small and tight ass of hers twitching and wiggling! Snorkeling is a great spectator sport! I wish she’d had time to learn scuba (that’s Self Contained Underwater Breathing Apparatus, for those not familiar with the aquatic life and our modern use of acronyms), those scuba people would have loved her bikini.
Unfortunately, all the tourist development since then has caused substantial waste runoff, some untreated. They have recently initiated some environmental monitoring, so the situation may improve sometime in the future. I hear in a few years they will be able to establish a Marine Park Trust to try to preserve part of the Bay.
Of course, when we were far from shore, Barb sometimes didn’t wear a swim suit
In the afternoon, we went ashore and cruised the bars. The women tended to be all over me, but I was taken. Barb was like honey to the flies for the men, and she tactfully flirted with them all. We spent like drunken sailors (Bless the CIA and the Yale twits!) and freely discussed with everyone who would listen our plans to go next to Cuba.
I spotted Cuban agents several times at the bars, listening closely to us from a distance. It was all going according to plan. But two things worried me.
First, I got the same vibrations that {Kathy} had. No evidence or proof, but something just didn’t seem right. Seriously, as an experienced agent, I can sense these things.
The other was that Barb had ceased making rapid progress leaning things, except possibly which were her favorites among the many tropical drinks she sampled. The idyllic location, the freely flowing food and drink and booze, and the incredibly accomplished lover she slept with all seems to turn part of her brain to mush.
After I spotted Cuban agents, I would explain to her who they were and what gave them away. But she never got it and couldn’t even recognize the same agent the next day. This wasn’t good and convinced me that she would stay on the boat some of the times I went into Cuba to make contact. There she wouldn’t have to stop agents.
The evening of our last day, we went back to The Shipwreck for going away drinks. Everyone was sad to see us go, especially Barb, who had made many conquests, male and female. I shook hands with Jimmy and gave him an extra obscene tip (thanks CIA). {Kathy} stopped by briefly, it was a busy night, a large Elks lodge was staying at the big hotel. Elks always liked {Kathy}. But she came away to see us off. As we left she kissed us both good-bye – open-mouth, deep-tongue, extended kisses. What A Lady!
We went back to the boat, made love, and got an early bedtime for a good start in the morning.
Next morning, October 7, 1960, exactly on schedule, we weighed anchor and set sail for Cuba, for Bahía de Cochinos, the Bay of Pigs, in South Central Cuba. A trip of about two days.
Again, we were blessed with perfect weather. Clear skies, small waves 2-3’, and a fresh trade wind out of due west at 5 on the beaufort scale (that is about 15 knots for you landlubbers, and about 17 miles per hour for those in the far interior like Minnesota). I made for Cienfuegos, to stay east of the Caymans, where we could make land and then make our way leisurely west to Bahía de Cochinos.
Sailing close-hauled (keeping the sheets tight to hold the boom close on board, the boom is..aww the hell with it. If you want to know, look it up), about 45 degrees from windward, we were able to make good speed but were kept busy trimming. Thankfully, Barb’s brain without a constant supply of Mai Tai’s, Mojito’s, Daiquiris, Painkillers, Rum Runners, and the ever-popular, but oh so dangerous Rum Punch, seemed to have recovered enough to bring back the sailing skills she’d learned.
To a true wind sailor, there is nothing better (maybe not even sex) than sailing blue water, close hauled with a fresh wind on a calm sea. You constantly hear and feel the wind as you work the wheel to maintain the tack and simultaneously trim the sails to avoid luffing. It was near perfect.
On the way, I explained once more to Barb about our contacts.
{Eula} came from a fiercely Anti-Castro family. Both her parents rebelled when the first anti-democratic and anti-freedom measures were imposed. Both were taken away by Che Guevara’s secret police, never seen again, presumed dead. {Eula} and her brother {Windar} were left to try to eke out an existence in the poor rural area around the impoverished town of Playa Larga at the northern tip of the Bay of Pigs. {Windar} had to take menial, sporatic jobs, and {Eula} worked at the only thing open to a woman who was also an enemy of the state; she became a prostitute. Two years earlier, I had recruited them. It was easy, they hated the Fidelistas with a dark and burning hatred.
{Windar} was 22, and big. 6’ 1” or 2”, 200 lbs, dark with black hair and big muscles. He had the energy and passion of youth, and was quite clever, which made him easy to train, and he took to my teaching that he couldn’t slip up or he would endanger his sister.
{Eula} was just 19, but very tall and slender, almost 5’ 7” with modest, firm breasts. She was fairer than her brother with very dark and thick brown hair which she wore shoulder length. Her eyes were a rich brown and her smile, always full of teeth, was innocent and winning. She was very bright and quick with a strong defiant streak. I thought her gutsy rebelliousness combined with her guttural hatred of Castro made her a serious threat to any Fidelista. For that matter, I wondered if some of her customers, coming for a nice submissive whore, were surprised and taught to toe her line. In New York City, with her size and grit, she would have made a fortune as a dominatrix.
We made excellent time, and midday on the second day out, we sighted land. Through superb dead-reckoning navigation (yes, and a fair amount of luck) we struck land just where I had hoped, about 10 miles west of the entrance to Bahia de Cienfuegos at Jagua. From there we turned west and, keeping well off the lee shore, tacked by sail and motor toward the Bay of Pigs.
While Barb and I sat together at the wheel, I told her about {Eula} and her name. Her birth name was Gabriela, meaning God is my Strength. That was very appropriate due to her strength of character and her strong Catholic Faith. But when she was just in her teens, she had read the story of the martyrdom of Saint Eulalia of Barcelona. From then on, she insisted on being called Eulalia, or more simply, {Eula} the Spanish short version.
Saint Eulalia, who died in the early fourth century CE, is the co-patron Saint of Barcelona. She was a Roman Christian Virgin during the reign of emperor Diocletian.
{Eulalia} was safe at her home out of town, but heard of Judge Dacian forcing Christians to worship pagan gods. She marched into his court and insisted he stop. At first the Judge was amused by this young woman being so defiant, and tried to flatter and cajole her. But she persisted and insulted the pagan gods even more.
Exasperated, Dacian ordered her tortured to recant her Christianity. Tradition says that the Romans subjected her to thirteen tortures. These included placing her in a barrel with broken glass and rolling her down the street; whipping; tearing her skin in strips; walking barefoot on hot coals; branding her with hot irons; boiling oil; molten lead; locked in box with fleas; crucified on an X cross; having her breasts cut off or burned off (accounts vary)
Finally, to kill her (she was still alive at that point??), she was decapitated. At that moment a white dove flew out of her neck and all the torturers and guards fled in fear!
Our {Eula} found the story of Eulalia thrilling when she read about a girl at much the age she was; it excited her that a girl her age could be so bold and brave and be tortured in such - er - arousing ways!
Barb was silent for quite a while after I finished (a rare thing for her). Finally, she said, “I can’t wait to meet her! We have to be careful to protect her. That girl is special!”
“I know," I said, "I’d give my life to protect her, as I would for you.”
Five miles east of the entrance to the Bay of Pigs, a Cuban patrol boat approached and ordered us to heave-to. Two rather disreputable members of the Fidelistas came aboard and looked at our Canadian papers, which they found to be in order. They then did a cursory inspection of the boat. Since Barb was wearing her most revealing sailor outfit, they spent more time inspecting her than the boat. I had to admit that, at least at this moment, the idea of the Yale boys to send Barb along did aid the mission. They finished and asked us our plans while trying not very subtlety to look down Barb's shirt. We told them we were going to the Bay of Pigs and they waved us on our way.
The inspection had been cursory and without real threat. But having Fidelistas carrying their weapons onboard our boat, hammered home that that the game was now afoot.
At 3:45 in the afternoon on October 8, 1960, we rounded the headland and sailed into the calm, peaceful waters of Bahía de Cochinos. It was time for us and the mission to get serious!
windar
Teller of Tales
She also dyed her hair blond for the occasion
Barb is very good at leaning things, especially after a few drinks. Oh, you mean learning. Barb is very good at learning things like how to get in trouble. She's downright Nobel-caliber at that.
You've redacted the names of hookers, but not the critically important location?
Huge muscles, pal
Those dummies should have asked you guys to say "about" and who won the Stanley Cup in 1935
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
She also dyed her hair blond for the occasion
Barb is very good at leaning things, especially after a few drinks. Oh, you mean learning. Barb is very good at learning things like how to get in trouble. She's downright Nobel-caliber at that.
You've redacted the names of hookers, but not the critically important location?
Huge muscles, pal
Those dummies should have asked you guys to say "about" and who won the Stanley Cup in 1935
Sun bleached hair. Bay of Pigs is sorta public now, nolo condendare for most of the rest
She also dyed her hair blond for the occasion
It's just the underwater lighting that does that ....
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
You know, girl. If you have absolutely no understanding of something, it is best to just keep your mouth shut and your legs open.It's just the underwater lighting that does that ....
Buzz off fella. I have my own mission to perform here you know. Your's isn't the only show!
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I humbly apologize.
off stage whisper
[I need her around for a few more chapters, until I get her well-bound and unable to escape]
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Gentle Reader,
As you can see in Chapter Eight, the story has become a little darker.
In Chapter Nine, later today, it will be darker still.
A warning to a few, a teaser for many!
The Autho
As you can see in Chapter Eight, the story has become a little darker.
In Chapter Nine, later today, it will be darker still.
A warning to a few, a teaser for many!
The Autho
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
If I only had a brain!
And if I only could type and proofread!
The Author
And if I only could type and proofread!
The Author
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
I love book covers like this.
They titillate, but they tell you nothing about the book, except that there is probably (not certainly) a female character with blue eyes and that it might (but often doesn't) contain erotica.
Nevertheless, I am toying with this for the cover of my next story. But I need a girl, preferably a pain-slut, with blue eyes. ?
They titillate, but they tell you nothing about the book, except that there is probably (not certainly) a female character with blue eyes and that it might (but often doesn't) contain erotica.
Nevertheless, I am toying with this for the cover of my next story. But I need a girl, preferably a pain-slut, with blue eyes. ?
Praefectus Praetorio
R.I.P. Brother of the Quill
Chapter Nine
October 8, 1960, Mid Afternoon; Bahía de Cochinos, República de Cuba.
Censor notes: no redaction issues unaddressed. The agent has appeared to have come back to being a profession working for the top Agency in the World.
We pulled half-way in the Bay and anchored on the windward shore, not far from the fishing village of Playa Los Cocos, well away from the main village of Playa Larga at the head of the Bay. (Translation for the language impaired, Coco or Coconut Beach and Big Beach).
Although Barb was a bit impatient with me, I followed my training and insisted we go over the plan again. Next morning, I would go into Larga alone and ask after a local putita I knew named {Eula}. It would be easy and normal to send a message to her to meet me at a beach cottage she often used in her business. Then we would both go there, but I would go ahead to meet {Eula} and ensure it was clear for Barb to join us. Once together we could exchange information and Barb could ask for what she wanted.
Barb wasn’t paying much attention to me through this and was mostly looking around the Bay as if assessing it for some purpose. But she stubbornly refused to give me any hint as to what her mission was about. The Yale boys had sworn her to absolute secrecy and apparently didn’t even trust me!
Then, for about the tenth time and accompanied by Barb’s eye roll and weary sigh, we examined the weapons locker. One thing the Agency people back at Langley are good at is devising great ways to store and hide weapons. A totally invisible panel by the steering wheel covered the locker. It was placed there to be handy if we needed weapons while Fidelistas were on the boat but up forward.
Once you knew how to get the cover off, the locker was a mini version of an assault team’s arsenal. Two Tommy guns, (Yes, I know that’s slang for Thompson sub-machine guns, but I like the name better, a sniper rifle, a Beretta 418 (lady’s gun, not enough stopping power for my taste), a Walther PPK 7.65mm (an excellent all-around choice), finally a Long-barreled Colt .45, a handgun for distance work.
They also included flack jackets and other standard items, most of which would have no use on this mission.
I took the PPK and recommended the Berretta to Barb. She was happy with it since she’d read that handsome Brit agent used one. (Actually, the Brit guy did use it for a while until he realized it was a lady’s gun and almost got killed when the action (not internal like the PPK) caught on his clothes as he went for the gun. I think his handlers then forced him to change to a, wait for it, Walther PPK 7.65mm!
We had dinner and sat quietly afterwards. We made love and went to sleep. It did nor feel like Barb's heart was in the sex.
Next morning, I untied the painter and stepped into the dinghy. I tried to leave Barb with instructions, but she was getting an attitude. I guess great sex isn’t enough to get a feisty girl to come to heel. She kept interrupting, saying she had her own mission and once, under her breath muttered, “Why does the man always give the orders?” (Who did she think she was, Rosie the Riveter?”) Fortunately, she had to remain on the boat, my main order, since I had the dinghy. I was becoming more and more concerned about her attitude.
I motored into Larga and had not trouble getting help from the locals as a rich Canadian with money to burn. A very appreciative bartender promised to get the message right to {Eula}, after he pocketed my C$5. I continued for another hour exploring the town and spending freely, before heading back to the boat.
First thing, Barb is on me, “Why were you gone so long? What do you expect me to do here alone? Did you expect dinner to be made? Fat chance for that, Mister! If you were later, should I wait up?” Jeeze, had I gotten married without knowing it.?
At five that afternoon, we pulled the dinghy up on the eastern shore, about a half mile south of {Eula}’s cottage. There was no sign or sound of any observation. I walked up the beach while Barb went 100 yards inland and paralleled me. As I strolled up the sand acting like I didn’t have a care in the world except to get to my whore and get my rocks off, Barb was struggling through the underbrush. I knew when I next saw her, I would hear about it.
At the cottage all looked well and I walked in the open door. There was {Eula} as lovely as ever in a very slutty outfit of a cut-off tee shirt that barely came down below her nipples, and a very, old, very brief, very tight pair of shorts whose button had long since disappeared and were just held up by a tired zipper. God, she was sexy! We fell into each others arms and hugged tightly while kissing. And yes, it was open mouth kissing, we had a cover to maintain. Besides, I always take a personal interest in my agents.
{Eula} assured me she wasn’t watched or followed and knowing her, it was true. But we still talked in low voices and sat on the old couch and made out to cover if anyone burst in (and {Eula} was always fun to make out with. Not an unstoppable sexual athlete like {Kathy} but a simple, normal girl who could make you feel like a super normal man!).
After a minute, when my hand had somehow found itself up under her top, teasing her right nipple, Barb burst in the door waving her Beretta and then snorting at us. “I’m waiting out there in that bug and snake infested brush while Mr. ‘I’m God’s gift to Women’ here makes out!” I wondered how she knew my Caribbean nickname, then realized she must have been told by many of my admirers in Jamaica.
I calmed her down and then reminded her of the strict protocol for approaching a foreign rendezvous place like this. She was not to come in under any circumstances unless I gave the codeword. If the place and I had been compromised, she could quietly slip away, get help, go back to Jamaica, whatever the plan called for. I’d have a chance to use my cover even if arrested. She would have no real cover and be in deep trouble.
Barb reluctantly agreed. But defiance flashed in her eyes.
I introduced Barb and {Eula} and they immediately hit it off. {Eula} does that; women feel safe around here, it just men that sometimes don’t. Hooker with a hard exterior and a heart of Gold is a cliché, until you meet {Eula}
I debriefed {Eula} on local status and committed the information to memory. I let her know a few updated things from the US and the Agency. She told me how Guevarra’s secret police had built a fortified camp above the town. She had exact information on the location and even some of the inside layout. I memorized her map-like details. She was a wonder!
She was eager to tell how she had been talking to the other prostitutes who were all rabidly anti-Castro. She was planning to share the weapons she and her brother had stolen and stockpiled as well as the few I had gotten them with her other whores. She joked that they had agreed to call themselves the “Commie-killing Joy Girls.” God that girl was clever, and funny.
Hearing that, Barb asked to take {Eula} aside for her own business. {Eula} looked at me uncertainly and I nodded that it was OK. They went out on the porch and spoke in low voices for about 15 minutes. When they came back, {Eula} was very excited and energized.
Next {Eula} showed us her piece-work job to earn extra money. Cartons of Havana cigars were piled in the corner. The cigar company exported to Europe and Asia by promising the "original secret" method of production. That consisted of a certificate with each box promising, in line with the old folk stories, that each cigar had been rolled on the inner thighs of a young girl (the language "young girl" (la chica) was ambiguous, it could mean a girl under 20 or a virgin. The company hoped buyers would believe the latter {Eula}’s infectious laughter as she described her “virgin thighs” had us doubled over.
{Eula} sat down and promptly demonstrated her rolling technique. I took a photo for Agency records.
A short while later we left. We arranged that just I would meet with {Eula} at her families barn at 4 pm next day. {Windar} would meet us an hour or two later after his work clearing a farmer’s field. Barb wanted to know why she wasn't going, and I said I would explain on the boat.
The stroll down the beach was in silence. The ride in the dinghy to the boat was in silence, as was climbing aboard and tying up the painter. But a moment later, Barb’s floodgates opened and she began to rag on me for ten minutes straight. I sat quietly and listened.
After Barb ran out of things to say, including extensive sociological theories about “Male dominated Patriarchies” (clearly a Yale class for women; didn’t those Yale professors teach the funny old male invented rule about “redundancy?”) which seemed to be close to a criticism of me, being a male and all, she sat silent.
I quietly and slowly stated my position. I told her that I had been an agent since I was her age. I had seen partners and contacts die. It had killed a little bit of me each time. But it never happened because I hadn’t followed the plan or the instructions of an agent I respected. I knew it was mind-numbing to go over a plan, detail by detail, for the tenth time. I knew how tempting it was to trust that you’d figure it out when you got there or bully through with your gun and fists. But, early on, after learning from my own trainers how these things worked, I had sworn, by everything I love and hold dear, that I would never, NEVER, put another in danger because I had taken something for granted or not known the plan backwards and forwards like it was the only thing of meaning in the whole world.
I explained that she was a very talented and promising agent. But she was very young and didn’t have yet the fully committed attitude of a good agent. It had less than zero to do with her sex. She had much more ability and skill than many senior male agents I knew (more than my Station Chief, {Thehangingtree} I told her, even if he was sober).
But tomorrow, I was responsible for the safety of {Eule}, {Windar} and {Barbara Moore} I couldn't be everywhere at once and I didn’t like leaving her alone on the boat, but given her irresponsible attitude today, I wouldn’t take her to {Eula} and {Winder}’s home and compromise their safety. It was what I had to do.
When I finished, she continued staring silently at me as she had throughout the lecture. I hoped she understood what I had said, but she was so stubborn that I knew she wouldn’t admit a wrong now.
I suggested we have dinner which we made and ate in silence. For the second time since before North Myrtle Beach, we went to bed with making love.
The next afternoon at about 3:30, I took my PPK, and the long-barreled Colt and made sure Barb had her Beretta and got in the Dinghy. Beside the silence on the boat, I had a strong feeling that something was wrong and was glad I was leaving her behind.
I went up the west shore about two miles, pulled the dinghy into the underbrush, and set off cross-country to the barn.
As per protocol, I approached roundabout. As I got closer the heavy feeling of dread grew. But I wouldn’t stumble into an ambush and took all the time to get to the barn.
The barn was brightly lit, which was unusual. The big doors both wide open, which was unusual. Not a sound from the house or the barn, which was unusual.
I worked my way soundlessly up to the side of the front with my PPK at the ready, cartridge in the chamber, action cocked. Ever so slowly I came up to the open door, With my heart seeming to be loud enough to rouse the village, I looked around the door and into the barn.
October 8, 1960, Mid Afternoon; Bahía de Cochinos, República de Cuba.
Censor notes: no redaction issues unaddressed. The agent has appeared to have come back to being a profession working for the top Agency in the World.
We pulled half-way in the Bay and anchored on the windward shore, not far from the fishing village of Playa Los Cocos, well away from the main village of Playa Larga at the head of the Bay. (Translation for the language impaired, Coco or Coconut Beach and Big Beach).
Although Barb was a bit impatient with me, I followed my training and insisted we go over the plan again. Next morning, I would go into Larga alone and ask after a local putita I knew named {Eula}. It would be easy and normal to send a message to her to meet me at a beach cottage she often used in her business. Then we would both go there, but I would go ahead to meet {Eula} and ensure it was clear for Barb to join us. Once together we could exchange information and Barb could ask for what she wanted.
Barb wasn’t paying much attention to me through this and was mostly looking around the Bay as if assessing it for some purpose. But she stubbornly refused to give me any hint as to what her mission was about. The Yale boys had sworn her to absolute secrecy and apparently didn’t even trust me!
Then, for about the tenth time and accompanied by Barb’s eye roll and weary sigh, we examined the weapons locker. One thing the Agency people back at Langley are good at is devising great ways to store and hide weapons. A totally invisible panel by the steering wheel covered the locker. It was placed there to be handy if we needed weapons while Fidelistas were on the boat but up forward.
Once you knew how to get the cover off, the locker was a mini version of an assault team’s arsenal. Two Tommy guns, (Yes, I know that’s slang for Thompson sub-machine guns, but I like the name better, a sniper rifle, a Beretta 418 (lady’s gun, not enough stopping power for my taste), a Walther PPK 7.65mm (an excellent all-around choice), finally a Long-barreled Colt .45, a handgun for distance work.
They also included flack jackets and other standard items, most of which would have no use on this mission.
I took the PPK and recommended the Berretta to Barb. She was happy with it since she’d read that handsome Brit agent used one. (Actually, the Brit guy did use it for a while until he realized it was a lady’s gun and almost got killed when the action (not internal like the PPK) caught on his clothes as he went for the gun. I think his handlers then forced him to change to a, wait for it, Walther PPK 7.65mm!
We had dinner and sat quietly afterwards. We made love and went to sleep. It did nor feel like Barb's heart was in the sex.
Next morning, I untied the painter and stepped into the dinghy. I tried to leave Barb with instructions, but she was getting an attitude. I guess great sex isn’t enough to get a feisty girl to come to heel. She kept interrupting, saying she had her own mission and once, under her breath muttered, “Why does the man always give the orders?” (Who did she think she was, Rosie the Riveter?”) Fortunately, she had to remain on the boat, my main order, since I had the dinghy. I was becoming more and more concerned about her attitude.
I motored into Larga and had not trouble getting help from the locals as a rich Canadian with money to burn. A very appreciative bartender promised to get the message right to {Eula}, after he pocketed my C$5. I continued for another hour exploring the town and spending freely, before heading back to the boat.
First thing, Barb is on me, “Why were you gone so long? What do you expect me to do here alone? Did you expect dinner to be made? Fat chance for that, Mister! If you were later, should I wait up?” Jeeze, had I gotten married without knowing it.?
At five that afternoon, we pulled the dinghy up on the eastern shore, about a half mile south of {Eula}’s cottage. There was no sign or sound of any observation. I walked up the beach while Barb went 100 yards inland and paralleled me. As I strolled up the sand acting like I didn’t have a care in the world except to get to my whore and get my rocks off, Barb was struggling through the underbrush. I knew when I next saw her, I would hear about it.
At the cottage all looked well and I walked in the open door. There was {Eula} as lovely as ever in a very slutty outfit of a cut-off tee shirt that barely came down below her nipples, and a very, old, very brief, very tight pair of shorts whose button had long since disappeared and were just held up by a tired zipper. God, she was sexy! We fell into each others arms and hugged tightly while kissing. And yes, it was open mouth kissing, we had a cover to maintain. Besides, I always take a personal interest in my agents.
{Eula} assured me she wasn’t watched or followed and knowing her, it was true. But we still talked in low voices and sat on the old couch and made out to cover if anyone burst in (and {Eula} was always fun to make out with. Not an unstoppable sexual athlete like {Kathy} but a simple, normal girl who could make you feel like a super normal man!).
After a minute, when my hand had somehow found itself up under her top, teasing her right nipple, Barb burst in the door waving her Beretta and then snorting at us. “I’m waiting out there in that bug and snake infested brush while Mr. ‘I’m God’s gift to Women’ here makes out!” I wondered how she knew my Caribbean nickname, then realized she must have been told by many of my admirers in Jamaica.
I calmed her down and then reminded her of the strict protocol for approaching a foreign rendezvous place like this. She was not to come in under any circumstances unless I gave the codeword. If the place and I had been compromised, she could quietly slip away, get help, go back to Jamaica, whatever the plan called for. I’d have a chance to use my cover even if arrested. She would have no real cover and be in deep trouble.
Barb reluctantly agreed. But defiance flashed in her eyes.
I introduced Barb and {Eula} and they immediately hit it off. {Eula} does that; women feel safe around here, it just men that sometimes don’t. Hooker with a hard exterior and a heart of Gold is a cliché, until you meet {Eula}
I debriefed {Eula} on local status and committed the information to memory. I let her know a few updated things from the US and the Agency. She told me how Guevarra’s secret police had built a fortified camp above the town. She had exact information on the location and even some of the inside layout. I memorized her map-like details. She was a wonder!
She was eager to tell how she had been talking to the other prostitutes who were all rabidly anti-Castro. She was planning to share the weapons she and her brother had stolen and stockpiled as well as the few I had gotten them with her other whores. She joked that they had agreed to call themselves the “Commie-killing Joy Girls.” God that girl was clever, and funny.
Hearing that, Barb asked to take {Eula} aside for her own business. {Eula} looked at me uncertainly and I nodded that it was OK. They went out on the porch and spoke in low voices for about 15 minutes. When they came back, {Eula} was very excited and energized.
Next {Eula} showed us her piece-work job to earn extra money. Cartons of Havana cigars were piled in the corner. The cigar company exported to Europe and Asia by promising the "original secret" method of production. That consisted of a certificate with each box promising, in line with the old folk stories, that each cigar had been rolled on the inner thighs of a young girl (the language "young girl" (la chica) was ambiguous, it could mean a girl under 20 or a virgin. The company hoped buyers would believe the latter {Eula}’s infectious laughter as she described her “virgin thighs” had us doubled over.
{Eula} sat down and promptly demonstrated her rolling technique. I took a photo for Agency records.
A short while later we left. We arranged that just I would meet with {Eula} at her families barn at 4 pm next day. {Windar} would meet us an hour or two later after his work clearing a farmer’s field. Barb wanted to know why she wasn't going, and I said I would explain on the boat.
The stroll down the beach was in silence. The ride in the dinghy to the boat was in silence, as was climbing aboard and tying up the painter. But a moment later, Barb’s floodgates opened and she began to rag on me for ten minutes straight. I sat quietly and listened.
After Barb ran out of things to say, including extensive sociological theories about “Male dominated Patriarchies” (clearly a Yale class for women; didn’t those Yale professors teach the funny old male invented rule about “redundancy?”) which seemed to be close to a criticism of me, being a male and all, she sat silent.
I quietly and slowly stated my position. I told her that I had been an agent since I was her age. I had seen partners and contacts die. It had killed a little bit of me each time. But it never happened because I hadn’t followed the plan or the instructions of an agent I respected. I knew it was mind-numbing to go over a plan, detail by detail, for the tenth time. I knew how tempting it was to trust that you’d figure it out when you got there or bully through with your gun and fists. But, early on, after learning from my own trainers how these things worked, I had sworn, by everything I love and hold dear, that I would never, NEVER, put another in danger because I had taken something for granted or not known the plan backwards and forwards like it was the only thing of meaning in the whole world.
I explained that she was a very talented and promising agent. But she was very young and didn’t have yet the fully committed attitude of a good agent. It had less than zero to do with her sex. She had much more ability and skill than many senior male agents I knew (more than my Station Chief, {Thehangingtree} I told her, even if he was sober).
But tomorrow, I was responsible for the safety of {Eule}, {Windar} and {Barbara Moore} I couldn't be everywhere at once and I didn’t like leaving her alone on the boat, but given her irresponsible attitude today, I wouldn’t take her to {Eula} and {Winder}’s home and compromise their safety. It was what I had to do.
When I finished, she continued staring silently at me as she had throughout the lecture. I hoped she understood what I had said, but she was so stubborn that I knew she wouldn’t admit a wrong now.
I suggested we have dinner which we made and ate in silence. For the second time since before North Myrtle Beach, we went to bed with making love.
The next afternoon at about 3:30, I took my PPK, and the long-barreled Colt and made sure Barb had her Beretta and got in the Dinghy. Beside the silence on the boat, I had a strong feeling that something was wrong and was glad I was leaving her behind.
I went up the west shore about two miles, pulled the dinghy into the underbrush, and set off cross-country to the barn.
As per protocol, I approached roundabout. As I got closer the heavy feeling of dread grew. But I wouldn’t stumble into an ambush and took all the time to get to the barn.
The barn was brightly lit, which was unusual. The big doors both wide open, which was unusual. Not a sound from the house or the barn, which was unusual.
I worked my way soundlessly up to the side of the front with my PPK at the ready, cartridge in the chamber, action cocked. Ever so slowly I came up to the open door, With my heart seeming to be loud enough to rouse the village, I looked around the door and into the barn.