Annabel Poppy Authored by Michael Robards
Copyright Annabel Poppy Š Michael Robards - 2015 Cover design by Jane Louise Tait, jane@hnkstudio.com Published by Stergiou Limited, UK ISBN EPUB: 978-1-910370-66-7 All rights reserved.
Prologue Michael Roberts felt himself to be a very lucky man: he loved his children, he loved his job, and his wife had left him. Monica´s departure nine months previously continually struck him as an event of unexpected and undeserved serendipity. It was not that he had been particularly unhappy in his marriage, but this development had left him, at the age of 42, free to pursue a new hedonistic and self- indulgent lifestyle, which he had never had the money or free time to enjoy in his youth. And there was no guilt involved. He incredulously compared his situation with that of most of his friends who were either stuck in boring domestic routines, pursuing sordid and demeaning secret relationships, usually with colleagues from the office, or bravely breaking free from unhappy marriages, and suffering the devastating financial consequences. He thought of his friend David, who really believed he had fallen in love with a woman he travelled to work with. He had left his wife and lost everything. He was living in a seedy bedsit in Tottenham, and, after paying his rent, bills and travel costs, could barely feed himself on what was left of the 20% of his after tax income that the lawyers had awarded him . David’s children hated him and refused to see him, his wife scorned him and his mistress had left him, not being impressed with his inability to take her on the exotic holidays she dreamed of. David frequently asked Michael for his advice over the drinks Michael paid for after work – Michael did not know what to say. Because for Michael it was so different: he kept his salary,
less statutory child maintenance, and Monica kept hers. They had sold the Grange, outside Epping, for more than they had expected, and had both bought four bedroom detached houses in the town, his near the tube station and hers near her office, from where the nanny drove the boys, Charlie and Ben, to Chigwell School every week day and Monica walked to work. He had the boys 3 weekends a month, and frankly saw just as much of them as he had before, and he even kept on fairly friendly terms with Monica´s new boyfriend. Michael felt truly blessed. He recognized the asymmetry of course; if he had coolly announced that he wanted to split up from Monica because he had met someone new, he would be in the same position as David, (or worse, Monica was an aggressive and successful lawyer herself), but he did not dwell on this; why bother? Neither had these events brought Michael any social opprobrium; in fact, quite the opposite. Viewed as the injured party, their former friends had rallied around Michael most sympathetically; he was never left alone on the touchline at the boys´ football matches, as he generously defended Monica’s seemingly inexplicable behaviour in reply to the salacious enquiries from fellow parents. And over the after-match teas he could pick and choose from the dinner and party invitations laid before him. His friends thought that he needed looking after, and he was, after all, as an eligible single man, a rare social asset; everyone knew a very suitable woman to whom this tall sandy haired man with the pleasant smile should be introduced. He had tried out these introductions a couple of times, without long term success. The first, Sonia, had inexplicably lost all interest in sex by her early forties, and appeared to
view the liaison with Michael merely as a means to recapture her pre-divorce lifestyle, to acquire another equestrian estate and re-engage with the horsey set. Sonia’s divorce had been an exception to the rule that women always win, but only because her ex had been a spectacular crook and had vanished overseas with all their money, leaving her with the children, the debts and no income. The equestrian property had been the first thing to go, followed by the antique furniture and the Georgian silver; she was on the point of having to take the kids out of their boarding schools. She had been really desperate. Michael had quite liked the idea of horses, and Sonia had kept herself in shape, but even if the sex had been any good, Michael had realized that the two sets of children would have hated each other. It was hard to pinpoint why, just an instinct. His boys, whilst loving and unspoilt, had a firm idea of cool, and Sonia’s boy, in between Michael’s two in age, was definitely uncool. Sonia’s daughter, a couple of years younger, was quite sweet, but, sequestered away in a remote boarding school in Wiltshire, lacked the metropolitan sophistication and polish that the girls at Chigwell possessed to a frightening degree. Michael had realized that he had better disengage quickly, and had spun out the ‘I´m not yet ready for another commitment’ routine until Sonia had taken the initiative to dump him. Madelene, on the other hand, had been much more promising. American, twice divorced, childless and with a voraciously adventurous sexual appetite, Michael’s few months with Madelene had been, in many ways, blissful. Madelene’s mail order home furnishings business in Boston seemed to be able to run itself quite satisfactorily without her, and she had been able to live with Michael from December to April, including a skiing holiday with Charlie
and Ben, and to accompany Michael on several European business trips. She was a better skier than Michael, and had even been able to stretch Charlie by taking him down the Grand Couloir at Courcheval, while Michael and Ben took the red route down. But it was the European business trips which stuck most in Michael’s mind; and the hotels: the Dolder Grand in Zurich, Hotel Continental in Oslo, the Hamburg and Munich Vier Jahreszeitens and the Frankfurter Hof. Madelene had blagged upgrades in every one; the suite they had stayed in at the Frankfurter Hof was just mind boggling; polished ebony and glass, mirrors everywhere, bathrooms to die for, intercourse in every position on every surface, room service dinners in bed, Madelene resting or shopping while Michael made his business calls and waiting for him, voracity restored, on his return; was this work or heaven? Madelene was the sort of woman who enjoyed lap dancing clubs as much as Michael did, and they would extravagantly hire a girl each to titillate themselves until they had to run back to their hotel dripping with lust; the business calls had gone quite well too. So what went wrong? At times there had been a barely concealed desperation in Madelene; casually dropped remarks that her personal net worth was approaching seven figures, copies of Bride magazine inadvertently left on the coffee table, wistful remarks about growing old together – ‘growing old?’, Madelene was already old, two years older than Michael. Why would a divorced, prosperous 42 year old man want a permanent partner older than him? How long would their current bliss last? What would Madelene be like in 15 years’ time? No, for anything long term, Michael realised he needed to look for a girl half a generation younger than him. Not too close to his kids’ ages, but probably nearer their age than his. So Madelene had been
disposed of in the same way as Sonia. Michael had been more cautious about his friends’ introductions to ‘suitable’ women after Madelene. Of course, both Sonia and Madelene had described the end of their respective affairs as their own initiative, due to Michael’s immaturity or some unspecified character flaw. But Michael realized he needed to maintain some credibility with his coparents, and anyway they were never going to introduce him to a suitable partner – so best just to enjoy the socializing, the flirting and the food and drink. More recently Michael had taken to weekday evening dance classes, salsa and tango, as the way of meeting women. This had worked quite well – the tango classes led more regularly to sex, but the girls in the salsa classes were prettier and younger. And then there were the women at work. Michael realized he needed to be careful here, but since Monica had left him, and the more recent divorce, there had been a distinct change in how his female colleagues had treated him. Previously they had maintained a professional distance, in the office and on business trips – which Michael reciprocated. Now he noticed a change, not entirely unwelcome, but one which rang alarm bells. He resolved to remain cautious about relationships with women from the office, but not rule them out altogether. Michael had prided himself on promoting talented women in the office, and he felt his special efforts were recognized both by his superiors and the women themselves. Michael’s approach was not entirely disinterested; he knew that in his business, corporate and correspondent banking, talented and attractive female account managers did much better than their male equivalents, except perhaps with the most staid and traditional British clients. Not only did the
overwhelmingly male clients (Corporate Treasurers and Finance Directors) prefer the women account managers and make time in their schedules to see them whenever they called – not just half an hour in the office, but extended lunches and dinners, but ‘his’ girls were much more ambitious and conscientious than their male predecessors – always up to date with the latest products and technology, and taking a real pride in winning business, in stark contrast to the previous male account managers who remained stubbornly defensive about their lack of product expertise and their inability to win business. True, the competition from other European and US banks was intense, but that did not stop Michael’s girls winning business time and time again. Michael was especially proud of his Nordic team. Three attractive single girls, all with family links to the region and local language skills, Kristin, Maria and Josie were outstanding. They worked so well together, without a trace of jealousy or cattiness, taking pleasure in each other’s successes, two on the road at any time and one in the office looking after their combined caseload. Michael accompanied them from time to time, and more than one of his clients had congratulated him, with a chuckle, on putting this winning team together. “You will always get our business as long as you keep sending Kristin to see us,” one had said, “It is such a pleasant change to chat about business in Norwegian, and she is so understanding…” Michael had showered these girls with promotions, pay rises and bonuses, but he knew he would lose them sooner or later. Australian Imperial Bank could not compete with Goldman Sachs, and he knew that their success had been noticed by some of his mightier competitors. ********************
Michael was Managing Director for Corporate and Correspondent Banking – Europe at Australian Imperial Bank, and he was deputy to the General Manager for Europe. Brian Harrison, the General Manager and Michael´s boss, was a crusty Australian expat in his late fifties, who hoped that this would be his last job before retirement – the idea of being sent back to Sydney for some middle ranking Head Office paper pushing job appalled him. He loved being in London. The bank paid for his Belgrave Square flat, he lived off his expat allowances, which even seemed to cover his wife’s account at Harrods, and his salary, conveniently taxed by neither Britain nor Australia, had already paid off the mortgage on his wine estate in the hills outside Adelaide and was now rolling up in Guernsey, to provide a comfortable cushion for his retirement. And he did no work in the office; Michael did all that for him. Brian’s life was an endless round of client lunches and bankers´ receptions. His predecessor had appointed Michael to his position four years earlier, and Brian had no reason to question that decision. Michael presented Brian with all the credit recommendations to sign before they were sent off to Sydney; for form’s sake Brian explained he had to disagree with Michael once every six months, but he gave Michael due warning, so the ‘conflict case’ was a deal Michael didn’t want to do anyway – and Head Office were impressed by the mature, tough but constructive relationship between the General Manager and his Deputy. Brian was good at concealing his incompetence; he had been quite happy with the Bank of England’s old regime for foreign bank supervision, and had managed to acquit himself without embarrassment when he had been summoned to the Bank for a chat over a cup of tea once a year. But the new Financial Services Agency was another matter entirely and it
had filled him with dread that his total lack of understanding of modern banking would be uncovered. However, the solution had been simple and painless – just appoint Michael as the branch’s ‘Senior Executive Officer’ for the purposes of the supervisory authorities, and Brian could get back to his lunches and receptions without a care in the world. Michael wondered whether he would ever get his boss’s job, or whether the bank would always appoint an expat as General Manager. He didn’t really care, he loved his job and Michael realized his luck at getting it – a position his contemporaries would kill for. Michael had shown no great promise at school, nor while studying geography at Bristol; and being taken on as one of National Westminster Bank’s hundreds of graduate trainees in 1976 was not a stellar achievement. But he had passed his banking exams, married Monica, and after putting up with the intense boredom of work as a trainee in various branches and commercial banking centres, he had applied for, and miraculously been given, a two year secondment to County Bank, Natwest’s merchant bank subsidiary. He realized that this was his big chance to differentiate himself from his contemporaries, and he threw himself into his new job energetically. Monica was also working all hours in her city law firm and understood Michael’s priorities. He learned about Eurobonds, syndicated loans and revolving underwriting facilities, rights issues, the basics of mergers and acquisitions, interest rate and currency swaps and other basic derivatives – if a pitch book needed writing he would always volunteer for it – and he generally ingratiated himself with the merchant banking directors. He knew that he would never become a merchant banker himself - he was not posh enough and he had not gone to the right school, but he
correctly believed that the gulf between merchant banks and commercial banks was breaking down, and the skills he was learning would be very marketable back in the commercial banking world. He returned to Natwest after his secondment and was rewarded with the promotion he was due for anyway, but the work got no more interesting and the pay no more attractive, which was starting to be an issue as Charlie was born that year, so he started looking around. There was no shortage of opportunities. In 1985, in the run up to ‘Big Bang’ almost every foreign bank was beefing up its presence in London, and every commercial bank wanted to develop its capital markets capabilities. Australian Imperial Bank advertised for “A professionally qualified account manager with capital markets experience and a proven track record”. Michael applied and after four interviews was offered the job as a senior client account manager in charge of a four person team on double his Natwest salary – very handy as Monica was now pregnant with Ben. He fitted in at Australian Imperial from his first day. He found he already knew three or four of the guys in the dealing room from Upper Clapton Rugby Club, where Michael spent his winter Saturday afternoons, and his friends in the dealing room were pleased finally to be able to work with a client account manager who knew about their products. The other three senior account managers who covered the UK market were a bunch of superannuated duds and it was not difficult to shine in comparison with them. Michael found that senior management in Sydney genuinely wanted to raise their profile in London and gave Michael all the support he needed in credit approvals and capital allocation. Armed with the ability to put ten, twenty or thirty million
pounds of approved credit on the table, Michael found it easy to win mandates from his clients for syndicated loans and revolving underwriting facilities. The bank had never won Lead Manager mandates before, and by the end of his second year Michael had five of them under his belt, as well as a couple of Australian Dollar Eurobond mandates, and he enjoyed the experience of inviting his former colleagues at Natwest to join his deals as co-managers. Senior Management loved him; he was invited to Sydney for a training course for high potential account managers and was introduced to the CEO. They paid him a bonus, fired two of the other senior account managers and put Michael in charge of half the UK market with a team of twelve and the title of Vice President. Michael was then asked to take over responsibility for Correspondent Banking for Europe, in addition to his UK responsibilities, with another four person team. This involved selling Australian Imperial Bank´s Australian cash management services to European banks and it conveniently gave Michael his first experience of doing business outside Britain, and a taste for Continental Europe´s finest hotels. Little by little he replaced most of the staff he had inherited, took over responsibility for the remainder of UK Corporate Banking as the other UK Vice President was pensioned off early, recruited an old mate of his from Natwest as his deputy for UK Corporate Banking, and at the beginning of 1994 he was summoned to the General Manager´s office to meet the Deputy CEO over from Sydney and offered the role of Managing Director, Corporate and Correspondent Banking for all of Europe, with a free hand to restructure the business as he wanted. He was 38, he had been with the bank for eight years, and with his first MD’s bonus he was earning ten times what he had earned at Natwest. After Michael had been in the job a year the
General Manager went back to Sydney to be Group Personnel Director and Brian arrived fresh from managing the Bank’s branch network in South Australia. He wouldn’t have lasted a week without Michael’s handholding, and Michael successfully lobbied to be officially appointed his deputy. Could he love his job too much? Was his sense of self-worth totally derived from success at work? Did he think about the effect on his family when he worked late or entertained clients every night of the week? In truth, he only recognized the need to compromise when it was too late. Monica had become fed up with taking sole responsibility for the kids and running the house; she had also felt overwhelmingly neglected as a woman and decided to do something about it while she was still young and attractive enough. There was no ultimatum, she just presented Michael with a fait accompli, and in mid-1997 they split up, relatively amicably. Michael didn’t really need to slow down at work, but he did work late less often to give himself time for his own social life, and he gave up playing rugby and cricket on Saturdays to spend time with the boys and to watch their sports matches. Brian gave him the occasional fatherly chat and encouraged him to work late less and get out more; his wife had never liked Monica, who had made her feel uneasy whenever they met at work social functions, and she pushed Brian to help Michael find a new younger woman who was easier to get on with. Everyone seemed to be on his side, and his new single life seemed to be shaping up just fine.
Chapter 1 One morning in the spring of 1998, Brian asked Michael to his office. “Mike, do me a favour and take care of this for me would you?” he said passing over a four page letter on thick embossed stationery. “It’s an invitation from some obscure member of the Royal Family to the Boss in Sydney to attend a two day seminar in Exeter next month on computer security. Maggie in the Boss’s office sent it to me with firm instructions not to delegate it, but I twisted her arm and in the end she said I could delegate it to you, but no one else – apparently attendees have to be Board Level or one notch below, which is stretching a point in your case, but whatever, you’re going!” Michael remained deeply puzzled, “I don’t know the first thing about computer security, surely Ronnie from Systems should go, or at least Frank as Head of Operations” Michael vainly pleaded. “No Mike, you’re missing the point, this seminar is not for techies, it’s for senior business people to be made aware of the importance of computer security to their whole business, especially with this ‘Year 2000’ bug thing, Y2K they call it. The Duke of Exeter is the Royal Family’s token techie and he’s got a real bee in his bonnet over this, so he has persuaded Exeter University’s Business and Technology unit to set up these seminars for him. The Duke is sponsoring and hosting them, hopes to get CEOs from all over the Commonwealth to attend, but you’ll have to do from Australian Imperial. Oh, by the way, I’ve volunteered you to present a paper on the opening afternoon – you choose the
subject, anything vaguely relevant to computers in banking, you’re good at that sort of thing, ask Ronnie to help you if you like, but I think you’re better off doing it yourself” Michael returned to his desk lost in thought; a paper to the whole conference on a subject he knew nothing about did not sound much fun, but perhaps he could negotiate something a little less formal, maybe opening remarks to a seminar sub-group on technology and shareholder value in the banking sector, something like that. Michael was good at shareholder value; he used maximizing or destroying shareholder value as the clinching argument whenever he wanted to get his way; it was miraculous how those over used words seemed to make opposition evaporate. He read the Duke’s letter carefully and got on the phone to the Director of the Business and Technology unit at Exeter, who seemed to be arranging everything. Michael found himself talking to Priscilla Camplin who seemed delighted to hear from him. “Look, Priscilla, I understand that I am penciled in to give one of the opening presentations, but lecturing to a big audience isn’t really my thing. Could we think more in terms of a position paper to a break out group to start the discussion rolling? I would be happy to talk about the role of technology in maximizing shareholder value in the banking sector, with special focus on computer security: How would that do?” He suggested. “Yes, I think we could manage that, Michael, the programme is still quite flexible at this stage and I was planning a couple of break out groups after the opening presentations. Look, I can reduce the number of opening speakers and add in a third break out group which you can lead. Could you let me have an outline of your remarks by the end of next week, so
I can send out a final programme to all the delegates and ask them to designate which break out group they would like to join. Thanks Michael, I really look forward to meeting you in Exeter next month” Michael began to look forward to the conference in Exeter; Priscilla sounded very pleasant, and looking through the outline programme in the Duke’s letter, the delegates were going to be looked after pretty well. Posh hotel for cocktails and dinner, the conference facilities in the Duke’s castle sounded smart, and the draft list of delegates looked interesting. Michael was booked into a more modest hotel a few miles away, as the main hotel was fully booked with the VIP delegates, faculty and conference organizers. As expected, it took Michael very little time to download one of his old ‘shareholder value in banking’ presentations, and add in a few bits and pieces about technology and computer security, which he e-mailed to Priscilla a couple of days later. A month later Michael left home early in his beloved BMW. It was a 1985 528i which he had negotiated as his company car on joining Australian Imperial twelve years earlier. Shortly after he joined, company cars were abolished as a tax inefficient perk and replaced by a salary increase, but Michael had bought the car from the bank at a bargain price and kept it ever since. His friendly local independent BMW specialist kept it in first rate condition for him, and had recently installed a modern stereo and hands-free phone system. There was no prospect more enticing for him than a drive down to Exeter on a sunny Wednesday morning in May, leaving before the traffic built up on the M25, and concentrating on keeping his speed below 100 as he purred down the M4.
The delegates were invited to a buffet lunch at the Duke’s castle outside Exeter, with the conference due to start at 2pm. Michael arrived in good time and parked outside the Duke’s conference centre at 12.30. Priscilla greeted Michael at the door and invited him to join a group of the faculty and other presenters who were chatting before lunch. “This is Michael Roberts from Australian Imperial Bank, who is going to lead the discussion in Seminar group three with his paper on computer security and shareholder value. Your subject has proved very popular with the other delegates, Michael, and we have had to turn away some who wanted to join you, to keep the three groups more or less equal – I never realized that shareholder value was such a magnetic buzz word – you know there was no mention of it in the original conference programme, and now look at the final version – shareholder value pops up everywhere – that’s why it is so important to keep things flexible early on, so we can incorporate great ideas like yours”, Priscilla smiled engagingly at Michael and gave his arm an affectionate squeeze. “Now, we’ve appointed Dr Ray Speirs from the conference faculty to be the facilitator of your Seminar, so his job will be to guide the discussion, and appoint a rapporteur to report back on your conclusions to the full conference – so you don´t have to worry about any of that, just give your paper, answer questions and relax. Ray is a professor of computing at MIT”. Michael shook hands with a lugubrious American in his forties with a walrus moustache and a hairy tweed jacket. “You know Michael this is the real benefit of us academics and business people getting together – your paper really brings the business priorities alive for us – my work on computing is really pretty dry in comparison, but I think we
can help you and the other delegates identify the hotspots where the technical and the business issues collide; this Y2K thing for instance, no one knows if it will be a whimper or a bang, but we have only got eighteen months to figure it out, and you can guess how much shareholder value will be destroyed if we underestimate or ignore the risk”. Michael had brought two flip charts with him, containing the outlines of his seminar paper and before going in to lunch he asked Priscilla to show him to his seminar room, where he set up the flip charts on the stands provided. Michael went to his assigned table for lunch and chatted amiably with the finance director of a Canadian paper company and the company secretary of a supermarket chain. Shortly before 2pm the delegates filed into the main auditorium and Priscilla opened the conference explaining that the Duke would join them for drinks and dinner in the evening and would open the following morning’s session, and she set out the programme for that afternoon with three plenary presentations, followed by tea, then the break out seminars followed by a brief summing up of the seminar discussions to the full conference and then a final presentation, with the aim of finishing promptly by five thirty. Ray Speirs’ presentation went first followed by a British and then a German academic. All were expert presenters and captured and retained the audience´s attention with seasoned skill. Ray focused on the Y2K issue and the other two focused respectively on data security and disaster recovery. Michael followed the arguments as closely as he could and jotted down themes that he could refer to in his seminar paper, as he feared that otherwise it would be hard to argue that his paper had any relevance to the subject of the conference at all. He was able to identify half a dozen buzz
phrases that he thought could be smoothly referred to in his paper without breaking the flow too obviously. During the tea break he went back to his seminar room and skimmed through the flip charts adding the six phrases in red marker at the appropriate points in his presentation, and then rehearsed his opening two or three minutes until it was word perfect; the rest , he felt, could take care of itself. The twenty delegates who had chosen his seminar filed in, followed by Ray Speirs, who sat next to one of the flip charts, and without wasting time, introduced Michael and handed him the floor. Michael got up, welcomed the delegates and launched into his spiel. Banking was essentially the simplest of businesses, he proposed, but even so there had long been confusion about how to measure success. The problem had been that maximizing net income tended to drive down return on equity (ROE), while maximizing ROE beyond the particular institution´s cost of capital tended to shrink the business. In addition, either approach could lead to excessive leverage, and neither measure took account of the risks embedded in the bank’s portfolio; whether credit risk, market risk, operational risk or reputational risk. This was more than just an academic or presentational issue – whole sales forces could be frozen into inactivity by the ambiguous targets they were set when senior management was confused about whether they were trying to maximize income or ROE. Michael invited the delegates to draw parallels with their own industry, and found a wave of empathy flowing from the audience. The answer, Michael felt, was in more effective quantification of the concept of shareholder value as envisaged in the recent ideas of ‘economic profit’ or ‘economic value added’ (EVA). He then opened the first flip chart with an illustration of how EVA could be defined in a
banking context with traditional definitions of net income being adjusted for cost of capital and risk costs including expected and unexpected credit losses and a quantification of the potential costs of market, reputational and operational risk, with computer security being a key component in minimizing both operational and reputational risk. Michael saw a wry smile on Ray Speirs’ face at his first mention of computer security. Michael then turned to the second flip chart and started into his pet theory about how an institution could most effectively focus on maximizing shareholder value by optimizing a set of interlinked ‘cultures’ within the organization: in the case of banking he identified the cultures as sales culture, cost culture, profit/return culture, credit culture, and risk culture (more broadly). He sketched the well-known graph showing the ‘efficient frontier’ where the most effective compromise between risk and return was to be found for a portfolio of banking assets, and hypothesized that similar, if less easily quantified, relationships could be derived between any pair of the ‘cultures’ he had defined. He identified computer security as an issue to be addressed on the nexus between cost culture and risk culture and grandly summed up his thesis by arguing that senior management’s strategic initiatives in any industry needed to be defined by their effect on each of the ‘cultures’ involved, thus removing the ambiguity in the messages sent down the line when initiatives were taken focusing solely on costs, or risk or sales in isolation. Michael sat down feeling that he had struck a chord with most of his audience. He was not surprised when Ray Speirs sounded slightly facetious while thanking Michael for his presentation, commenting that shareholder value was clearly
an important issue and one whose relationship to computer security might not be immediately apparent, and inviting questions from the seminar group. The comments from attendees removed any doubts Michael had about how his presentation had been received. Most delegates agreed with his analysis and several said that his presentation had helpfully clarified their thinking about how performance should be measured and how management initiatives should be presented in the context of a business as a whole. None seemed concerned that computer security played only a peripheral part in the paper. Ray Speirs closed the seminar by appointing the Operations Director of an Indian software company to report back on the discussion to the conference as a whole. On returning to the main conference room, Priscilla explained that they were running badly over time and to get things back on track the reports from the seminar groups would be cancelled (much to the apparent relief of the three ‘raporteurs’ involved), and they would move straight to the final presentation of the day from the Director of Product Development of a large US computer company. Another polished and fluent presentation followed, from which Michael later could remember nothing, and shortly before six pm Michael was back in his BMW driving the short distance to his assigned hotel. Michael´s hotel turned out to be a pleasant pub with bedrooms, and an enticing selection of real ale, in Whitestone. The ten bedrooms were all occupied by conference delegates as were a handful of other nearby inns, with some late registered delegates billeted in B&Bs. Michael shared a taxi with two other delegates to The Royal Clarence Hotel in Exeter for the drinks reception and dinner.
The Hotel was grand and imposing in a beautiful location near to the Cathedral, and it appeared to be fully occupied by the Duke’s conference that evening. Michael felt a combination of elation and disappointment after the success of his seminar that afternoon, and he feared the evening might dissolve into anti-climax. He recognised a strong temptation to get outrageously drunk as quickly as possible, but decided that, on balance, there was probably fun to be had with Priscilla, Ray Speirs and the rest of them, that he would only miss by vomiting in the lavatories too early in the evening. Trays of drinks and canapés were being handed round by young waitresses and after consuming a couple of G&Ts, Michael was again accosted by Priscilla. “Michael, come over here with us, and I’ll introduce you to the Duke when he arrives; I’m sure you know the form, first put down your drink and then, as he’s an HRH, you should shake hands with a little bow when first introduced and then call him ‘Sir’, all quite informal. Anyway, Ray tells me your paper went down well, and produced a lively discussion…” “Yes indeed” interjected Ray Speirs sidling up to them, “I think our Michael could be quite the politician, he astutely steers the discussion away from subjects he feels less comfortable with, that is the subject of our conference, and has a fine line in smart sounding platitudes to fool his audience into thinking he is saying something profound – I would guess he could come up with a five thousand word seminar paper on any subject we presented him with at the drop of a hat – and they would all be about shareholder value! Yes Priscilla, Michael will be very useful to us whenever one of our scheduled speakers drops out.” Michael saw that Priscilla was looking uncomfortable at Ray’s teasing, but he wanted to show that he did not really mind
being patronized. “You’re quite right, Ray, you’ve seen right through me. But give me credit for not talking about ‘Total Quality Management’, that would have been so 1995, and bored them all to tears. At least with Shareholder Value I could come up with some nice formulae on the flipchart and even find a way of inserting computer security into them – the interface between cost culture and risk culture wasn´t it?” “Yes Michael, but it could equally have been Credit Analysis, Disaster Planning, Staff Screening or any other issue that involves cost and reduces risk”. “Of course, Ray, but not everyone is quite as smart as you – and that´s why you’re on the faculty and they’re not!” Priscilla visibly relaxed when she saw the dialogue was degenerating into good natured banter, but Michael felt that the edge to Ray’s remarks had not entirely evaporated. Just then a slight commotion around the entrance announced the entry of the Duke, with an equerry and his private secretary in tow. A tall, balding slightly stooped man in his sixties, the Duke surveyed the room for a couple of seconds looking slightly lost, but then noticed Priscilla and rushed over to her as if relieved to see someone he knew. Priscilla appeared very at ease with the Duke. “Right, Duke, formal introductions to the faculty first, then you can have a drink and chat with the rest of the delegates informally”, “OK Priscilla, whatever you say, but not too long till that drink, eh?” Priscilla proceeded to introduce the five faculty members with polished speed and precision, and then caught Michael’s elbow, steering him towards the Duke, while
deftly removing his drink with her other hand, “and this is Michael Roberts from Australian Imperial Bank, he’s not a member of the faculty, but did help us out by presenting the paper on computer security and shareholder value for seminar group three”. “Good evening, Sir” said Michael, shaking hands with a little bow, and feeling very relieved not to be holding a drink in his other hand, “Australian Imperial, eh, fine institution, the Chairman took me fishing when I was last in Sydney, Scott Mcgregor was his name, pretty wife, bit younger than him I should say, is he still Chairman?” “No Sir”, replied Michael, “he retired about five years ago”, “Really? Well time flies, doesn’t it? You over from Sydney?” “No Sir, I work in the London Office”, “London Office, eh? Good show! Now Priscilla, where’s that drink? G&T please, make it a big one, there’s a good girl”. As the Duke swung off in search of his drink, Michael was left alone, a little apart from the faculty members, and after replenishing his drink from a passing tray, Michael wandered over to them. Ray was the only one he had spoken to before, but he had heard the three other men, one American, one Brit and a German, giving their presentations at the conference earlier in the day. They were chatting to the fifth faculty member, who Michael hadn’t seen before. A tall attractive blonde woman in her late forties with prominent bust and hips, stylishly dressed but somewhat
over made up, she gulped down a G&T in two swallows and reached out for another one while hungrily demolishing her cigarette. She appeared intensely bored by whatever the other lecturers were talking about and as she caught Michael’s eye he felt a tingle run down his spine. Yes, he thought, there was some fun to be had tonight. “Come on Ray, introduce me to your friend” she said as he pushed in beside Ray. Ray, somewhat reluctantly made the introductions, and Michael found himself talking to Olga Bakunin, a Russian professor of computing from Saint Petersburg. “I’m afraid I’ve arrived late, flight was delayed from Moscow” purred Olga, “and then they didn’t have a room for me here, so I ended up in a farmhouse in Whitestone, a B&B they call it, charming place, charming people, but not a drink to be had there, and then when I arrived here, Priscilla said no drinks till we had met the Duke, but now he’s gone and I’ve got a drink in my hand, so much more relaxed. Sweet man by the way; is he married? And why is he a Duke and not a Prince, when his younger brother is a Prince? I know his younger brother is a Prince because he used to be a submarine captain in your Royal Navy and we had a file on him, ha ha.” The group appeared stunned into silence, but Olga was expecting an answer “I think the Duke was divorced about ten years ago” ventured Michael, “and it’s true that his younger brother is known as Prince Henry of Exeter, but that is really just a courtesy title, given to all direct descendants of Queen Victoria through the male line; but the Royal Dukedom of Exeter is a real title, only passing to the elder son, and it’s
the HRH bit which really counts, that’s why he has an equerry and private secretary and so on.” Added Michael, winging it furiously, but noting by the faces of the other faculty members that they knew no more about the genealogical details of the more obscure members of the Royal Family than he did. “Did you really have a file on his brother?” “Yes, we came quite close to catching his submarine in Soviet territorial waters on a couple of occasions. The British used to come in much closer to our submarine bases than the Americans did, and we needed to know what to do with a British prince if we caught him. Wouldn’t that have been hilarious? Now why don’t you take me into dinner and I can tell you all about me. You just have to re-arrange the seating plan a bit – I’ve already checked that I’m not sitting next to the Duke, so I might as well sit next to you”. Michael had about a minute before the guests were called into dinner so he checked the table plan, saw that Olga was on the top table and he was on Table 10. He promoted his neighbor on Table 10 to the Top Table and demoted Olga with a few strokes of his Mont Blanc, remembering to amend the alphabetical index too, calmly walked into the dining room where the Maitre D’ was making the final check on the table settings, and switched around the place cards with as confident an air as he could muster under the Maitre D’s quizzical gaze, and was back out again at Olga’s side just as Priscilla tapped her glass with a spoon and invited everyone into dinner. “Thank you Michael” said Olga as she took his arm and slightly unsteadily walked into the dining room, “the Top Table would have been too boring if I didn’t have a chance to seduce the Duke, and I would have had to behave myself,
very tiresome, but at Table 10 we can have fun, can’t we!” As Michael pulled out Olga’s chair for her, he scanned the other delegates on his table. There was the CEO of a midsized housebuilding and construction company seated on his left, then the Finance Director of a large chain of pharmacies, a Deputy Secretary from the Department of Industry, the Technology Director from a British Clearing Bank, a junior minister in the Nigerian Government, the President of a Canadian telecoms company, and the only other woman apart from Olga was the Corporate Affairs director of a big British oil company. He shook hands with them all and mumbled introductions and concluded that this was the last he would speak to any of them over dinner that night. He was right. “So Michael, you are a banker, how boring; you are married? No, divorced? That’s good; are you very rich? No, but prosperous, well we can’t have everything can we?” Olga didn’t appear to require Michael to speak as she seemed quite capable of divining the answers to her questions from his facial expression. “So now we know all about you, let me tell you about me, but I need another drink first” Olga had already consumed the first glass of Chablis before the waitress had finished filling the rest of the glasses on the table, which fortunately meant the waitress was at hand to refill Olga’s glass with no delay. “My life is pretty boring now too, but it didn’t used to be. Before I became a professor of computing, it was quite exciting. In the old Soviet Union, almost ten years ago now, I get quite nostalgic.” “So what did you used to do in the old days?” Michael felt he was expected to ask.
Olga gave him a big smile “Well let me tell you. I graduated with my doctorate in computing from Moscow University in 1975, when I was twenty four. They wanted me in the Army; they made me a captain and put me in charge of a team of computer programmers in Sverdlovsk, across the Urals, East of Moscow, in a big chemical and biological weapons complex. We programmed lots of things, but I specialized in Anthrax. How it would spread in the air after the warhead had been delivered, how it would spread in water, how it would spread in the cities of USA and Europe, in the countryside, depending on the weather, the rainfall, the size of the warhead, the strength of the spores, what would be the fatality rate, what if it was combined with other types of chemical or nuclear attacks; yes Anthrax was my speciality, but we also did fire control systems for the missiles, and I worked a little bit on the guidance computing. They made me a Major when I was twenty six. I was a fantastic programmer – it required great elegance and efficiency because we had to work with tiny computing capacities – for the anthrax simulations and modeling we could work on our mainframes, and they were slow enough, but for the other work we needed microchips and we had none of our own. Do you believe that we had to work with microchips we extracted from western computer games? Imagine programming a missile guidance system to work on computer hardware powered by microchips from a 1979 Atari 400. The Americans were quite effective at stopping us importing business computers, but kiddies’ computer game consoles we could get quite easily through Hong Kong and Singapore. In 1980 I started using chips from your British Sinclair machines, they were quite advanced. But then later in 1980 came the explosion at Sverdlovsk and the whole
team was evacuated and dispersed, I have no idea what was released into the atmosphere, but I was kept in quarantine for three months and then sent back to the University in Moscow”. By this stage the salmon mousse had been served and cleared away, and Normandy style veal chops were served accompanied by an earthy Madiran, which Michael noticed was a 1988 vintage. He had tipped the waitress to keep Olga’s glass full, which had not gone un-noticed by her. “Thank you Michael for looking after me so well, I do like a man who knows how to tip a waitress”, continued Olga. “This red wine is good, it reminds me of the red wine we used to get from Moldova in the old days. Anyway, I didn’t stay back in the university for long. This time it was the Navy who wanted me; they made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. They needed top programmers for sonar devices at the Morphyspribor lab in Leningrad, they gave me a bigger team, and later on when I was thirty two they made me a Commander of Naval Engineering with lots of gold braid on my cap, and a nice apartment with servants. The only problem was I had to spend most of my time up in Severomorsk, near Murmansk; not a lot to do there except work, drink and fuck, and I did plenty of all three. I was working on a seabed sonar device using chips from a Commodore 64; we diverted a container full of them that were on their way to Helsinki department stores for the 1984 Christmas season. These new sonars needed very sophisticated programming, and I really think I did my best work on that project, and they worked well too. We laid three of them at the entrance to the Chesapeake Bay in Virginia, and they gave us the acoustic signatures of every single American nuclear submarine going out to the Atlantic Ocean, from this we could track them wherever they went.
That was my crowning achievement in the Navy; they gave me a medal for it. The Americans dragged up one of my sonars a bit later, opened it up and found the Commodore chips inside. They were so mad and Richard Perle, you know the crazy Assistant Defense Secretary, made a big fuss in NATO and tried to get exports of computer games consoles banned outside US and Western Europe, but no chance, capitalism is too porous”. The main course had been cleared away and some kind of spongy desert served, but Michael persuaded the waitress to leave a couple of bottles of the Madiran on the table; Olga still seemed to be nostalgic and thirsty. “I stayed in the Navy until 1989” continued Olga “it was a good life, and I was very popular with the top brass, I always had an admiral for a boyfriend and they treated me very well. But then it all fell apart, my research budget was cancelled and there was nothing for me to do; and there was no money for anything, even routine maintenance, and for nuclear submarines that is not good news. But the scientific community in Leningrad knew how good I was, so they offered me a professorship at the Technical Institute, and that’s what I’ve been doing for the last eight years, teaching computing and learning English mainly, not much research – I leave that to the kids coming up. University life is dull compared with the navy – can you imagine anything duller than having another professor as a boyfriend? Not like the admirals, with their uniforms, their power, their dachas, the food and drink they could seduce me with. So now, I think, what about a British banker as a boyfriend? Does that sound like a good idea?” Michael looked around at the rest of the table. The two bottles of red wine were now empty, and Michael could only
remember having one glass from them himself. The other delegates, comprehensively ignored by both Michael and Olga, had previously appeared a little envious and resentful at the loud but exclusive conversation between them, but they now seemed faintly embarrassed. And Michael was beginning to see why. Olga had slowly turned into a parody of a drunken and pitiable lady of a certain age. Her lipstick was smudged, her hair awry and she had dripped coffee and red wine down her blouse. It was now after ten thirty, and his taxi would be waiting to take him and the two other delegates back to the hotel in Whitestone, and, as if on cue, Priscilla stood up at the Top table, tapped her glass and announced that there would be no speeches, that the dinner was over, that any further drinks would be for the delegates’ own account, and would everyone please try to be on time for the start of proceedings at nine sharp the following morning. “So Michael, are you going to give me a lift back to Whitestone? Have you ordered a taxi?” slurred Olga, showing no sign of standing up. “Yes Olga” conceded Michael “I’m sharing a taxi back with Bill from Rio Tinto and Sally from Glaxo, but there’s room for you to squeeze in too. We need to make a move because the taxi’s waiting”. Michael helped Olga stand up and steered her towards the ladies’ cloakroom. Michael met Bill by the door, who had already told the taxi they’d need a few more minutes. “Sally is powdering her nose” explained Bill “I´ve offered Olga Bakunin, the Russian professor, a lift back with us” added Michael “she is in a B&B in Whitestone”. Sally joined them after a few minutes. “I presume Olga is
coming in the taxi with us” said Sally “watch out Michael, she seems to have designs on you” “Whatever makes you think that, Sally?” asked Michael somewhat disingenuously. “Well, Michael, she’s not exactly making a secret of it, she seemed to assume that all the rest of us in the Ladies would have made our assignations for tonight too; and she obviously has something in mind the way she is re-doing her war paint but she does seem rather the worse for wear.” A few minutes later Olga joined them at the door swaying unsteadily and with her newly applied make up already smeared, and they all squeezed into the taxi. Olga and Michael were in the back with Sally and Bill was in the front. Michael was feeling acutely uncomfortable, a feeling which only intensified as Olga laid her head on his shoulder and placed a hand on his thigh. He got the impression she was sweating heavily and he started to detect a rich animal odour over her sickly sweet perfume. After about twenty minutes the taxi was approaching Whitestone, and Olga asked the driver to stop outside a farmhouse on the outskirts of the town. The hotel was about half a mile further on. “Well this is my B&B” said Olga, “Michael, it really is very dark and the path is uneven; would you be a gentleman and show me to my room?” Michael had been thinking how to respond to this inevitable question for most of the journey, and he could feel the eyes of Bill, Sally and the driver burning into him; in the end his courage gave out. “Of course Olga” he said, “I hope the rest of you don’t mind waiting, I will only be a minute”. He helped Olga out of the car, and held her arm down the short driveway. Her room was a converted outbuilding beside the main farmhouse, and
after fumbling in her handbag for the key, Olga clearly was finding it difficult to locate the keyhole, so Michael opened the door for her. “Well, goodnight Olga, I really enjoyed chatting to you over dinner”, ventured Michael rather feebly, “Oh Michael, you are such a disappointment…” was Olga’s withering response. Michael got back in the car and managed a wan smile in the direction of Sally and Bill. “I’d say you had a narrow escape there” commented Bill, “Oh, I don’t know, Bill, but one doesn’t want to appear to be taking advantage” was all Michael could think to say in reply.
Chapter 2 The next morning Michael struggled down to breakfast. The other delegates were sitting together almost finished, so Michael was mercifully allowed to sit by himself, slowly reviving after many cups of tea and a bit of toast. He was the last to check out from the hotel and drove to the castle probably still over the limit from the night before. The car park was full when he arrived, but the security guard let him leave the BMW on the verge by the exit, and as he walked into the conference room he looked around for any sign of Olga. She wasn´t on any of the ten syndicate tables, each one now full with five or six delegates, and Michael felt a twinge of sorrow for her as he imagined her waking up, heavily hung-over and desperately ashamed of her sluttish behaviour the night before. Probably she would have felt unable to face the other delegates, and was planning to take the first train back to London. Michael took one of the last free seats and as he sat down the Duke walked up to the microphone on the stage and welcomed the delegates to the morning session. The Duke did not seem to enjoy public speaking and appeared far less at ease than over cocktails the previous evening. He wasted no time in introducing the first speaker‌.the distinguished professor of applied mathematics and computer science, Olga Bakunin from the Saint Petersburg Technical Institute. Olga appeared on the stage from the wings, crisply dressed and looking ten years younger than Michael remembered from the taxi. She gave the Duke a dazzling smile, warmly shook his hand and smoothly ushered him off the stage. She confidently launched into her presentation and the audience strained forward to catch her perfectly fluent but heavily
accented words. She spoke in a throaty growl which Michael still found inexplicably alluring, and he wondered why he had abandoned her the night before – but it would have been impossible, what would his colleagues in the taxi have thought of him? But the more he thought about it the more he regretted that he had not gone with her. He felt that he had been more concerned with his dignity than hers, and he winced when he thought of the raised eyebrows and wry smiles that he and the others had exchanged when he came back to the taxi. What would have been more dignified for them both than to have said “I´ll just walk Olga to her room, don´t wait for me, I´ll make my own way back to the hotel”. As Olga finished her presentation and slide show the audience showed their hearty appreciation. Two more speakers followed and then the delegates were presented with an exercise to be completed by each table; Michael successfully avoided being scriptwriter or presenter and the business of the morning session gently washed over his head. The conference adjourned for lunch at 12.30, and as the buffet was being laid out stewards circulated with white wine from the Duke´s own vineyard – “English Riesling available to buy at fifteen pounds a bottle from the estate shop, which will be open for an hour after the conference adjourns for the day”. After two glasses Michael was feeling better and he looked around for Olga. She and the Duke were at the centre of a large huddle of delegates and as the noise from that group became louder and the other delegates chatting in twos and threes broke off to join them, Michael wondered whether to stay. His stomach could hardly face the buffet, and the vision of the afternoon session stretching in front of him was hardly riveting. If he stayed he would get away at 4.30 and he would be lucky to be home by 10.
Leaving now would get him home by 6. The only thing urging him to stay was the thought of Olga; but would she even speak to him now, let alone accept a lift home with him? Michael quietly slipped out of the conference room and two minutes later was driving out of the castle grounds. Traffic was mercifully light as the BMW purred up the M5 but became heavier as he joined the M4 towards London. It was after three as he passed the first signs for Swindon and Michael was feeling hungry. Missing the free buffet did not seem such a smart idea now and he realized that by carrying on he would hit the M25 slap in the middle of the rush hour. He took the first exit to Swindon, and his curiosity twitched as he drove into this town that he had never visited before. But the lift to his spirits from the Duke’s wine had worn off and in addition to hunger he was feeling the malaise from the previous night’s over-indulgence and sexual regret about failing to stay with Olga. Somewhere in the back of his mind a plan formed to eat and fuck in Swindon, and as he found himself turning away from the new town into an area of undeveloped Victorian terraces behind the station he pulled up in front of a newsagent. He bought a local paper and asked whether any local pubs would still be serving lunch. The shopkeeper directed him to the Moti Mahal, a nearby Indian restaurant that served food all afternoon, and as he waited for his chicken Balti to arrive he sipped his Kingfisher beer and scanned the small ads in the local paper. Two pages in from the back he found the ´massages´ section and amidst a fairly unpromising selection one stood out: “Cynthia helps discerning gentlemen to fulfill their fantasies”. He was about to call the number on his mobile, when some instinct for self- preservation nudged him into putting the mobile back in his pocket and using the restaurant pay phone instead, and, as his Balti was arriving at
the table, a female voice answered the phone and he told her he was Mister Masterson, wanting an appointment that afternoon. “Yes, this is Cynthia, and we could fit you in at 4.30. Come to 46 Trafalgar Street, go through the gate to the right of the house to the back garden, and knock on the kitchen door. Don´t knock on the front door and don´t park your car in front of the house. Do you know where Trafalgar Street is? No, well it´s just a five minute walk from the station. Oh, you´re quite near us then. We look forward to seeing you, sweetheart.” Michael ate his Balti and rice and ordered another bottle of Kingfisher. He looked forward to the sordidly erotic encounter that awaited him, and the waiter told him where Trafalgar Street was. At 4.20 he left his car parked in front of the restaurant, and walked along the few hundred yards to Trafalgar Street. Number 46 was a detached three storey corner house, and as he walked past twice on the other side of the road he saw that the curtains were closed on all the front windows. He crossed the road and entered the front garden, walked through the garden gate on the right, shut it behind him and approached the Kitchen door. He didn´t have to knock as Cynthia was waiting for him. “Right on time, Mister Masterson; I am Cynthia Frost and may I say what a pleasure it is to welcome a gentleman like you to our establishment. Please come in and sit down, would you like a cup of tea while we have our little chat?” Michael agreed and while Cynthia was fussing over the kettle and tea pot he had time to assess Cynthia and his surroundings. Cynthia was a short plump maternal looking woman, about forty, with generous bottom and breasts;
despite rather beady eyes, her face was pleasant and her skin seemed very smooth and unwrinkled. She was wearing a full rather old fashioned looking skirt with a plain white blouse. The kitchen was warm in the early summer afternoon. They were sitting at a round pine table and the kitchen units were also pine and recently installed. As she was filling the teapot Cynthia turned round and smiled lewdly at Michael: “I can see that you’re checking me out Mister Masterson, well I am not as young as I was, but I can still give a very good service, and none of my regular clients complain. With me, what you see is what you get” and she leaned over towards him and cupped her hands under her full breasts now more exposed as the top of her blouse fell open. “But I ´m getting ahead of myself sweetheart, we must have our little chat first” Michael complimented her on the new kitchen. “It´s my husband Harry, he’s very good with his hands, a real handyman around the house.” “Let me explain a little bit more about our establishment" continued Cynthia, "Harry and I run a residential home for girls who have nowhere else to live. Some are students, some are working or looking for work, and some are still at school. We have five girls with us at the moment, and as you might expect, they are quite unable to pay me for their room and board, so they help me in my business. So, Mister Masterson, you have quite a choice in front of you. Any or all of us can help your fantasies come true" Michael shifted uneasily in his seat as Cynthia's hand slid up his leg, but the stirrings of desire were making his mouth go dry and his face flush red. "So sweetheart, we won't talk anymore down here, if you want to go ahead, you pay me sixty pounds now, which pays
for a personal service from me or any of the girls, and we will go upstairs and talk about what you really want to do, and how much extra you want to spend - I am going to make you a very special offer for your first time here. Or if you don't want to go ahead, you are quite free to leave, there's no obligation, pet." Michael took three twenty pound notes out of his wallet and handed them over to Cynthia, who slid them into her cleavage with a smile "There's a good boy, we're going to lay on quite an afternoon for you. Just follow me upstairs and we can make ourselves comfortable" Michael followed Cynthia up two flights of stairs to the top floor. Cynthia was swaying her ample bottom and alternated between holding Michael's hand and rubbing his crotch when she paused at the top of each staircase. At the top landing was a single door leading into a large room with two double beds, a large armchair against the wall facing them, with a big wardrobe next to it, and another open door in the corner leading into a well- appointed bathroom. The bedroom appeared newly decorated and the bed-linen seemed freshly laundered. Cynthia led him to the bed furthest from the door, sat down and patted the duvet beside her. “Sit down here, pet, and I’ll tell you what I have in mind. First I’ll give you a good fucking, which will take the edge off a bit and help you relax to enjoy the rest of the menu” she smiled lasciviously and rubbed his groin, “then I’ll ask one of the girls to come in for a bit of role playing, to get you excited again, and then you can fuck her any way you like, nice and relaxed, no rush, all for another forty pounds. You don’t have to get home to little wifey any time, do you? No, I thought not, divorced, are we? Well, I’m not
surprised you need a little rest and relaxation after a hard day at the office. So what do you say, sweetheart, another forty pounds, or do you just want to do me and be on your way? I must say you’re making me very horny with that big fat cock of yours I can feel through your trousers, my cunt is positively dripping.” Michael reached into his wallet and passed over two more twenty pound notes. His throat was dry and his hands unsteady “What sort of role playing were you thinking of?” he croaked. Cynthia smiled broadly “There’s a good boy, you won’t be sorry. We’ll make sure you get your money´s worth. What games shall we play? Well let me think. I think we’ll get Bunny in for you after I have had my wicked way. Bunny can take a good spanking, or a caning. You can be the headmaster, and I can be matron bringing Bunny to your study for talking after lights out. You can cane her and then ask if she is sorry for being so naughty, and she can show you how sorry she is. Ooh, I see you like that idea don’t you, what a filthy mind you’ve got.” “Yes, let’s do that” said Michael, his throat getting dryer and dryer, “But perhaps I could be a priest and Bunny could call me Father?” “Of course, dearie. My! You are a pervert, aren’t you? But that’s no problem, and we do have a priest´s outfit in the wardrobe. Now, I’ll go and tell Bunny to be ready for us in twenty minutes, and I’ll come straight back to give you your starters. You just get undressed and wait for me, I won’t be long.” After Cynthia had left, Michael quickly undressed and lay on the bed. He was aroused, his hands were sweating and he felt his body emitting an unfamiliar rank smell. Cynthia came
back quickly, wearing a transparent blue baby doll nightie barely covering her bottom. “Come into the bathroom for a wash, darling. I don’t let my clients touch me till I have washed them, then you can touch as much as you like. First your hands, that’s right, now you can touch me while I take care of the rest.” Cynthia manoeuvred Michael in front of the basin, moving his legs apart as she washed his bottom and balls with a soapy flannel; then refilled the basin and took his cock firmly in her hands. “Let’s get this nice and clean before I suck it. You like this don’t you, rub-a-dubdub, come on sweetheart, squeeze my bottom and my tits, you’ll be positively bursting before we get back to the bedroom” Cynthia slipped her breasts out of the gauzy nylon and let Michael squeeze away while she dried his erect penis. She kept hold of his penis as she led him back to the bedroom, where she laid him on the bed on his back. “That´s what I like to see, nice and stiff, standing to attention for your mama, now feel how wet I am” she slipped off her knickers and standing beside the bed placed Michael’s hand between her legs. Michael was mesmerized by the touch of her hairy vagina, dripping wet, and her pendulous breasts just inches from his face. “Don’t bother sucking me or I will come immediately” he gasped “just sit on top and let me suck your breasts while you ride me” “OK Honey, but first we must put on our rubber friend, mustn’t we? Well, I’d prefer not to too, but these days you can’t be too careful.” Cynthia expertly slipped on the condom, holding Michael firmly by the base of his penis to stop him coming too soon. “There we are, now first a bit of lubrication” she said as she spat copiously onto her hand and rubbed the top of the condom, “now I can climb on”. Cynthia knelt over Michael and smoothly slid his penis into her. “Ah! That feels good, now you just lie there and do
what I tell you”. Cynthia rose and fell rhythmically, gradually rising higher and higher, “now darling, suck my titties harder, imagine there’s milk spurting out of them, suck, don’t chew, but suck as hard as you like, first one then the other” as she removed one nipple from Michael’s mouth and replaced it with the other, “and squeeze my bum, really dig your fingers in, that’s right, and shake my bottom up and down, squeeze and shake, squeeze and shake, that’s it, you’re getting the hang of it, squeeze, shake and suck that’s how I like it” Michael felt overwhelmed, by the soft, pulsating flesh pushing into his face, quivering between his hands, and smoothly, firmly and moistly squeezing his penis. He came after just a few more of Cynthia’s ascensions emitting a strangled shriek as the orgasm throbbed through his body. “Well Dearie, that’s you taken care of, but I need your body just a little longer. Try not to slip out now, and keep squeezing and shaking my bum”. She rode him more and more energetically until a gurgling and gasping sound and intense short strokes told Michael that Cynthia was also satisfied. Cynthia collapsed on top of him. “Don’t stop, I’ve got a couple more in me yet”, pleaded Cynthia, “Keep hold of my bum, and lick my neck”. Michael did as he was told, and Cynthia managed two more orgasms lying prone on top of Michael. “I think we both got our money’s worth, didn’t we sweetheart” added Cynthia, panting and sweating on top of Michael. Michael ran his hands up Cynthia’s flanks and was astonished as his thumbs encountered richly furred armpits. “I wasn’t expecting that” gasped Michael, as he moved his mouth under Cynthia’s armpit and chewed and licked her hairy flesh. “Yes, I’ve never shaved there, that´s how Harry
likes it, and I see you do too sweetheart. Well, well! Are you getting hard again darling? I didn’t realize that you were still a teenager!” And he was getting hard. Michael felt as if he had never encountered anything more erotic than Cynthia’s unshaven armpits. He greedily sucked the sweat off the soft fragrant hairs and chewed the tender flesh underneath. He was already starting to move his hips under Cynthia as his newly re-engorged penis pushed unopposed into her again. But Cynthia cut him short. “I don’t think we should start up again, or you won’t be able to appreciate what Bunny has to offer, though I am very flattered” chuckled Cynthia. “There we are, let’s just clean you up and we will get Bunny in here directly”. Cynthia climbed off Michael, removed, tied and binned the condom and wiped Michael down with a handful of tissues. “I think Bunny will be waiting outside now, so let’s get you ready” said Cynthia standing by the open wardrobe and handing Michael a priest’s black robe with dog collar, and a cane. “You just sit in the armchair and we´ll be straight back. As I said, Bunny can take a good caning, but if you overdo it I will intervene; and don’t worry about how young Bunny looks; she’s actually nineteen, but she makes herself up to look younger for gentlemen’s fantasies.” Michael slid the voluminous black robe over his neck and fastened the collar, then sat back in the armchair with the cane across his knees. Then came the knock on the door, and Cynthia entered dressed in a nun’s outfit, followed by Bunny in pyjamas and slippers. Bunny was a short, slim girl with close cropped mousy coloured hair, and she certainly looked younger than nineteen. “Good evening Father, I’m sorry to bother you, but I caught
Bunny here talking after lights out again. It’s the third time this week. I think she needs some firm discipline” said Cynthia with a perfectly straight face and solemn voice. “Thank you Matron, let me take care of it” replied Michael. “Now Bunny, we can’t stand for this sort of behaviour, so I’m afraid I will have to cane you. Pull down your pyjamas and lean over the arm of this chair.” Cynthia pushed her roughly across the room, bent her over the chair and pulled down her pyjama trousers. “No Father, please not the cane” squealed Bunny as Michael’s arm delivered a firm stroke across her bare buttocks. Michael struck twice more as Bunny’s body shook with sobs, the red welts spread across her buttocks and Michael’s penis swelled under his priest’s robe. “There, Bunny, that´s three strokes. I should give you three more, but if you show me how sorry you are for your bad behaviour, then we can leave it at three.” “Yes Father, thank you Father, anything you say Father, but please no more cane.” Michael sat down in the arm chair and lifted his robe. “Kneel down here in front of me and pray, my child. Hold the Staff of the Lord in your hands and kiss it to show how sorry you are,” commanded Michael. Bunny kicked off her pyjama trousers and knelt down and set to work on Michael’s penis, holding it between her two hands and sucking and slurping at its head. “Is that right, Father, am I saying my prayers well?” “Yes, my child, just like that and your sins will be washed away”
Now Cynthia intervened: “Father, I think Bunny needs the Staff of the Lord deep inside her to banish her sins.” Cynthia took Bunny’s hand and led her across the room to the second bed, “Now kneel down on the edge of the bed and spread your knees wide, so the Father can fill you with the Staff of the Lord. Come Father and do your holy duty” Cynthia lifted Michael’s robe, rolled on another condom and applied a dollop of KY jelly to the top. Bunny gasped as Michael pushed deep inside her, but soon settled down to respond rhythmically to Michael’s thrusts. She moved her hips enthusiastically, and pushed one hand back through her legs to grab Michael’s testicles and rub his perineum. Bunny clearly knew what she was doing. “Harder, Father, fill me with your staff. But stop before you come, because I want to drink the Holy Spirit” panted Bunny. Michael pulled out in time and sat on the edge of the bed as Bunny removed the condom and furiously rubbed Michael’s penis holding her mouth open wide ready to receive his ejaculation on her tongue. Michael spurted into Bunny’s mouth and she fixed him with her gaze as she closed her lips and let the semen drip out of both corners of her mouth and run down her chin, before licking it up again and swallowing hard. She then started greedily sucking his rapidly shrinking penis, “Let me drink up the last drop of your Holy Spirit” she spluttered “so then I can’t help but be good”. Bunny gazed up into Michael’s eyes and grinned cheekily. Michael collapsed exhausted onto the bed as Bunny scampered out of the room. “Is that enough for you today, Mister Masterson, or is there anything else we can help you with?”
“No thank you, Cynthia, I think that’s enough for today!” “OK then Sweetheart. I am sure you will be wanting to take a shower, so go ahead and take your time, and I’ll be waiting for you downstairs”. Michael showered and dressed, and made his way downstairs. As he was descending the last flight, he briefly spotted a squat powerful simian figure disappearing into the front room with one of the girls, evidently the elusive Harry Frost. Cynthia was alone in the kitchen, back in her normal clothes. “Goodbye, Mister Masterson, it was such a pleasure having you visit us this afternoon. I hope you enjoyed it too, and that you will be visiting us again soon. I promise we will lay on something extra special for you next time.” Michael mumbled his goodbyes and hurried out the kitchen door. Walking back to his car he couldn’t help looking over his shoulder to see if he was being followed, but once he was driving home the feelings of guilt evaporated and were replaced by a kind of elation: had he really dressed as a priest and caned a girl who looked the age of his boys, before engaging in a perverted religiosexual ritual with her?, what were the consequences of this behavior? Were these illicit thrills available whenever he had a hundred pounds to spare and happened to be near Swindon? Michael dismissed these thoughts and put on his new Sheryl Crow CD as he joined the motorway. It was six thirty and the M4 was quite busy, but the traffic had thinned out by the time he joined the M25, and he was home in Epping two hours later. He put his Waitrose pasta supper in the microwave, opened a bottle of Rioja and sat down to watch Friends followed by ER on Sky. He woke up at three in the morning with the TV showing an old episode of Lovejoy, the pasta half eaten and the Rioja finished. He threw away
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The author
Michael Robards was born in London and educated at Oxford University. Following a career as a banker in the City of London, he moved to Mexico where he lives with his wife, children, dogs and horses.
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Sample
Paperback (illustrated) Language: English Pages: 150 Cover image: © Konradbak | Dreamstime.com Category: Fiction Publisher: Stergiou Limited Publication date: 22nd of January 2015 Country of publication: United Kingdom Edition: 2nd ISBN: 978-1-910370-65-0
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