(1980) The Second Lady (36 page)

‘See you.’ He hung up.

She waited nervously inside the front door, with one eye on the entrance to the President’s work suite. If Andrew came in as Willis appeared, she’d have to think fast.

Three or four minutes later, she heard Fred Willis’s voice in the corridor, speaking to the Secret Service men. She pulled back the door and greeted him. Willis stepped inside. Vera shut the door.

Willis was reaching into his trouser pocket. He whispered, ‘Dangerous putting it on paper, but too detailed to pass on verbally.’ He pushed a folded note into her hand. He smiled. ‘All here. Exactly what you want. Read it privately and get rid of it.’

‘Fred, I can’t tell you —’

But he was already gone.

Glancing at the door to the President’s office suite, Vera dashed into the bathroom. Safely locked inside, she hastily unfolded the note, which grew into a single sheet of typing paper with single-spaced typing in English that almost covered the page. Quickly she scanned it, beaming, carefully read it a second time word for word, committing it to memory. She was about to undertake a third reading when she heard Andrew’s voice from the bedroom.

‘Are you ready?’ he called out.

‘Give me a few minutes, dear,’ she called back..

She turned on the sink tap full force, tore the KGB note into shreds, and dropped the pieces into the toilet bowl. She flushed the toilet, watching to see that every piece of paper disappeared. Satisfied, she removed her robe and resumed preparing herself for dinner.

She had been unusually vivacious throughout dinner, and she could see that Andrew was pleased with her. When they had returned to Claridge’s and arrived at their suite, Admiral Sam Ridley, the military chief of staff, was waiting to speak to the President. He had drawn Andrew aside, addressing him in an undertone.

The President had nodded and returned to Vera. ‘I’m sorry, dear, but something’s come up that needs a little discussion. I’ll have to go down the hall with the admiral. I won’t be more than a half-hour.’ He winked at her and leaned over, his lips close to her ear. ‘Don’t go to sleep on me. I’ve waited a long time for tonight.’

She had brushed his cheek with a kiss. ‘I’ll be up, darling,’ she promised.

And here she was, drying herself from her bubble bath, noting that Andrew would be here in a short time, ready to bed down with her. Dabbing on perfume — Billie’s favourite scent — Vera made a critical inspection of herself in the full-length mirror behind the bathroom door. What she saw was nothing to be ashamed of or even worried about. Her breasts looked wonderful, pointed straight out, no sag. She had held her weight down, and her stomach was flat and her hips beautifully curved yet firm. Briefly, she wondered how he would treat this body. Although fear had left her, and her confidence was restored, the wondering about him revived a certain anxiety. It was the familiar high-strung feeling that she had known since girlhood, the standing in the wings, poised for the curtain to go up or poised for a cue.

Quickly, Vera slipped into her flimsy silk nightgown, the light pink one. She walked into the bedroom, fiddled with the lights, leaving only his bedside lamp on. Turning toward her twin bed, she loosened the blankets, pushed the two pillows closer, picked up a novel and got into bed to await the last and most crucial hurdle of the perilous undertaking.

After a while, she saw that the half-hour had passed, then forty minutes, and fifty, since he had left her for his conference. It was no use trying to sleep or feign sleep. He would not permit it.

She opened the novel, determined to distract herself. But no use. Her head was elsewhere. She closed the book, set it on the table, lifted one pillow against the headboard, and propped herself up. The material she had received from Moscow on handling the President in bed had been general in some areas, specific in others, but overall it gave her an excellent idea of what to expect and what was expected from her. She wondered how this intimate material had been acquired, but of course she knew. Alex had seduced Billie Bradford. Alex had slept with the First Lady. Alex had written the instructions. Yet, the almost certain knowledge of this provoked no jealousy in her whatsoever. Billie Bradford would not have meant a thing to him except a job well done. Vera felt positive that his one concern had been to get her back to him safely. Recently, she had not thought about Alex much, but now she felt the old warmth and love for him and invoked his devotion to get her through this night. Speculating on her next action, for which she finally felt well prepared, she realized how eager she was to undertake it. The excitement it provided was probably far greater than what she might know if she was debuting in Moscow in The Doll’s House.

She remembered, also, that what would happen tonight was only a means to the end that would follow. Giving herself to the President should bring the returns she expected. In a short time from now, he would be relaxed and talkative, and with gentle prodding from her, he could be depended upon to confide his secret Summit plans. Tomorrow, she would communicate them to the Premier. Her role in the victory would be ended. The day after tomorrow she would be flown back to Moscow, even as Billie Bradford would be flown to London. The exchange would have been made. The real Billie Bradford would resume her familiar role as First Lady. She, herself, in Moscow again, would undergo a second round of minor plastic surgery, to alter slightly her Billie-perfect face and restore it to her previous Vera face. Honoured and elevated, Vera would take up her stage career once more. The leading parts in the Moscow Theatre would

be hers. And Alex, dear Alex, she could have him openly, marry or live with him as she wished.

She peered at the clock. More than an hour had passed. The President was extremely late. It had to be something important to keep him from what he desired so much. She must be patient, she told herself, and she must be giving and loving. For him, the experience tonight must be pure and it must be total. Above all, it must disarm him.

Five minutes later she heard the entry door open and close, and she heard the lock turn from the inside.

Andrew Bradford breezed into the bedroom, smiling at her, pulling off his suit jacket, casting aside his necktie, opening his shirt. He came directly to her and kissed her on the lips. ‘My, you look beautiful,’ he said. ‘Sorry, I’m late. We had to bring some loose ends together, consolidate our talks strategy. I tell you, it was hard keeping my mind on the work, knowing you were here and that we could have our old times again.’

‘I love you, Andrew. I’ve missed you.’

‘Not more than I’ve missed you.’ He had his shirt off. ‘I’ll be just a few minutes.’

‘Hurry.’

He disappeared into the bathroom. He would be taking off the rest of his clothes now. He would move to the toilet. She heard the toilet flush. Then she heard the water from the tap. Then silence. Cologne, she guessed, Zizanie.

He returned to the bedroom on bare feet. As he emerged from the shadows, she could see he was wearing his blue boxer shorts. He had a nice solid figure, a little flabby here and there, but trim for a man of his age. He had unbuttoned his shorts, dropped them, stepped out of them, and started to the other side of the twin beds. She could see his penis, somewhat enlarged, swinging from side to side. It was not yet erect.

‘Are you tired darling?’ she said.

‘A little. It was non-stop brainstorming down the hall.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘But not that tired.’

He was getting into the bed.

For an instant, the pulse at her throat jumped. Her confidence wavered. Alex’s report had been definite enough, or so it had seemed, but suddenly it did not have anything exact. What were the interim details? What should happen in these next seconds? Should she move towards him? Or would he move toward her?

She started to slide under the blanket toward him, then stopped. Her directions had implied he would move first.

He did.

He had thrown the blanket further back, and he was beside her in her bed, reaching down for the bottom of her nightgown. She lifted herself up, as he indicated he expected her to, and then helped him draw the nightgown upward. She raised her arms to accommodate the flow of the nightgown over her breasts and arms. He tossed the nightgown on the floor.

He eyed her seriously a moment. ‘You’ve got the most beautiful tits on earth.’

She pulled back her shoulders. ‘They’re all yours, only yours.’

‘Oh, God,’ he murmured, and bent to the breast nearest him, lips pressed to her flat nipple, kissing it, tonguing it, until it began to harden and rise. His lips moved to the other breast, curving his hand under it, massaging it, kissing it all over.

‘Andrew, I -‘

She closed her eyes and lay still, except for one hand resting on top of his head. He was kissing her navel and belly, one hand rubbing her pubic hair line, gliding downward, two fingers gently caressing her clitoris. She felt something press into her thigh, and opened her eyes to discover that he had grown fully erect.

Mouth near his ear, she forced herself to breathe harder. She was tempted to reach for his cock, but restrained herself. She remembered her instructions.

He was bringing himself to his knees, and she raised her legs and spread them apart. She was not completely aroused, not really moist, which worried her until she recalled that

she had earlier applied a sterile lubricant to help him.

He was coming down between her legs, one of his hands holding his stiff penis, guiding it toward her vagina. The tip of his penis probed, located the vulva opening, and he poked his erection inside her, pushing his torso closer until he had entirely entered her.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘how I’ve wanted you - how good this is — how good.’

‘So good, darling.’

He was going steadily now, up and down, up and down.

She covered her eyes with an arm, her mouth half open in a pose of ecstacy. She wanted to shake her ass violently, go up and down with him, make him ride her harder, make him gallop with her, but once more she held back and confined herself to mild undulations.

She lifted her arm from her eyes. His features were distorted. His pumping quickened. She supposed he was enjoying himself. She hoped so. For herself, she wasn’t really with it, only a silent partner to his solo.

For a fleeting second, Vera was again tempted to shake him up, give him a real pleasure ride. What fun to see his face, the face of the President of the United States, as someone fucked him out of his head. But the essence of the KGB report on Billie’s sexual behaviour burned bold as cue cards in her brain —

Straight ordinary missionary position. Reactions mainly passive. Let him come to you. No foreplay except breasts and clitoris. Let him do everything his way. Respond normally and with pleasure. Make no aggressive moves. Doubt if he will bring you to orgasm by intercourse. If he does, do not overreact. When finished, he will probably give you an orgasm by hand. We do not know every detail, but this should suffice. Just let him run the show, and you go along, and let him know he is pleasing you. All your moves must be familiar, comfortable, expressive of married endearment. This is to be routine release, not big romance. The game is pleasurable cooperation in his man’s world. Good luck.

Okay, good luck. Thanks, Alex. So Billie had been a dull fuck.

Vera felt the President arch, heard him gasp and wheeze, felt him going stronger, accelerating, punching into her harder, enlarging inside her, and then pubic hair flush against pubic hair he froze tightly to her, rasped something she could not make out, felt the sperm sputter deep into her. Ejaculation. Climax. Well, fine, she had gone the distance without a hitch.

Resting briefly on his elbows, he started pulling his slippery appendage out of her.

‘Wonderful, Andrew, just wonderful.’

‘Better than ever,’ he breathed. ‘You were better than ever.’

She lowered her cramped legs, and stretched. ‘Oh, that was delicious,’ she whispered, mocking Billie’s sometimes husky voice, ‘that was worth waiting for.’

He had rolled off her. ‘There’s more that’s worth waiting for,’ he said lazily.

She trusted the report completely now. ‘You’re too tired. You don’t have to.’

His hand reached down between her legs. ‘I want to. I want you as happy as I am.’

His fingertips found her distended clitoris, stroked it lightly, rubbed it harder, stroked her entire vaginal area, returned to the clitoris and glided back and forth across it.

As he continued the steady pressure, she moved her head on the pillow, from one side to the other, and rotated her ass gently - she knew her Billie by now - and she simulated controlled excitement.

Five or six minutes had gone by and she knew that she would not have a real orgasm.

The final problem. Billie came for sure this way. But how long did it take her? Ten minutes? Twenty? A half an hour? She must not miscalculate. He must tell her.

‘Andrew,’ she groaned, i’m sorry I’m taking so long.’

‘You’ll be all right in a few minutes. Just relax, relax, my darling, we have all the time in the world.’

Head to one side, a blink caught the time. Six minutes gone by. Two to go.

‘Oh, Andrew, Andrew, I’m wet all over.’

‘You’re almost there. Easy does it. Don’t think.’

Stupid idiot, she thought. Give him a big one. Now. Right now.

She went rigid, squeezing her thighs together, raising her ass, gave out a strangled cry, a long shudder — and collapsed in a heap.

Andrew removed his hand, smiling down at her. ‘There you are.’

‘Thank you, Andrew. Delicious from head to toe. Hold me, darling, hold me close.’

As his arms went around her, she smiled to herself. The best fake orgasm in history, she was sure. Move over Bernhardt, Duse, here lies an actress.

He was embracing her loosely.

Now transition, she thought, all’s fair in love — now war. She had come through the long-dreaded ordeal unexposed, unscathed, apparently an utter success. But there was still the last act, the purpose of all the acrobatics, the pay-off. How to handle it? She had rehearsed it countless ways in her mind. She must get into it - not too fast, not too eagerly -yet, not too slowly, or else he might fall asleep. Be deft. Be natural.