Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 BUTTERFLY AND FALCON (Part 27)

   By KATZMAREK (C)

   --------------------------------

   Author's note.

   This is a work of fiction based on fact.  Opinions and interpretations
of events expressed are my own and as such are entirely contestable.

   This remains my property and may not be used for gain without my express
permission in writing.

   -------------------------------------------------

   Leninsk lay some 30 kilometres to the East of Stalingrad across the
river Volga.  It had been projected as an industrial city but the war had
overtaken its construction.  A few factory buildings had been built but now
they were just empty shells.  The equipment had been shipped East of the
Urals.

   A concrete runway had been laid out before the war for a future airport.
No terminal building or hangars had been yet constructed but during the
Winter some prefabs had arrived and lay ready to be bolted together.

   4/155 Interceptor Squadron was using the field when Temporary
Lieutenant-Colonel Ioann Khrinov arrived to take command of the station. 
Formally, he'd been called John Greenhaugh, but had since began to use a
Russified version of his name.  It caused less problems.

   The 4/155 had a variety of equipment, some Yak 1s, Yak 9s and LaGG 3s.
Mostly these were second hand as this theatre of operations was consider
low priority.  The men of the 4/155 tended to reflect that status being of
average quality.  John had to turn the 4/155 into showcase squadron in less
than a month.  Then, the British Hurricane squadron was due to arrive and
the bigshots wanted to impress their ally with the strength and quality of
the Red Air Force.

   John brought with him his Adjutant from the 44th Guards 'Novgorod.' He
was all the Squadron could spare, but if he was going to improve the
4/155th he needed both good equipment and pilots.

   Benin was in Moscow at the War College.  She was taking her Officer's
course there.  Moscow was now an armed camp with an entire Soviet Army
dedicated to its defence.

   Jana Ivanova was still in Kalinin.  She was forbidden to fly at present,
her injuries from the crash a year ago had not healed sufficiently for her
to return to service.  Nevetheless she was being well-looked after and
treated as a hero for her exploits.

   She corresponded with John occasionally but the mail service was
sporadic.  John, in any case, wasn't the world's greatest writer and his
letters were brief and contained little news.  But Jana dealt with the hand
she was given and got on with learning to fly again.

   Upon his arrival at Leninsk, John immediately got on with the business
of improving facilities.  Decent communications and accomodation for both
pilots and aircraft were a priority.  Some new equipment was promised in
the form of Lavochkin La 5s but that just complicated the task.  His pilots
would need conversion training and it all had to be done inside 4 weeks.

   To get things done in the Soviet Armed Forces required a mixture of tact
and bullying.  From Stalingrad, however, he could summon large numbers of
workers to construct the prefabs through the local Party Organisation.

   Within a week, the first of the La 5s arrived.  It was a LaGG 3 with a
massive radial engine grafted on the front.  The engines had arrived from
the Americans, a Wright Cyclone 14.  It was rated at nearly 2000 horsepower
and was the most powerful aero engine available to Russian aviation.  This
was achieved partly by its 100 octane fuel and its 14 cylinders with a
total capacity of nearly 43 litres (2600 cu ins).  Finding adequate
supplies of AvGas to run these brutes was a problem but the Soviets
believed the extra performance provided by the powerful engine was worth
the effort.  The fuel, though, had to be imported as there were no
refineries in Russia capable of producing it at present.  This was brought
up from Persia through the Caucasus.  Limited supplies of the engine
restricted manufacturing of the Lavochkin to just a handful per month and
full production wasn't schedualed to take place until mid 1943.  Until fuel
and engine production problems could be overcome, the Red Airforce had to
make do with what they had.

   John adopted the first La 5 as his own personal aeroplane, a privilege
of rank.

   --------------------------------

   It had been an arduous journey for the 'Special Detachment Squadron' of
the RAF.  First, there was the perilous leg by ship through the
Mediterranean, subject as they were to attacks by German and Italian
bombers.  The two merchant vessels carrying the squadron's personnel and
aircraft then had to pass through the Dardenelles into the Black Sea and to
the port of Novorossiysk.  The aircraft were then assembled and flown to
Stavropol.  There they were to wait while the Squadron's support vehicles
caught up with them.

   By that time it was the middle of April 1942 and the Spring thaw was
just beginning that year.  The Stavropolskaya Vozvyshennost (Highlands) was
a mass of streams as the meltsnow began to run down towards the Caspian to
the East, and the Black Sea to the West.

   The Hurricanes landed on a section of the main road to Stalingrad as the
airfield was soft and treacherous.  'Oz' watched as each fighter landed in
a series of hops and slides.  Low foliage brushed the wingtips of the
aircraft as they touched down.  Thankfully, none of the Hurricanes were
seriously damaged.

   -----------------------------------

   At Leninsk, John had been told nothing about the personnel of the RAF
squadron, except that they'd been hand-picked.  His boys had worked hard to
improve their skills, suffused as they were with a little ring-in talent
the Red Airforce managed to assign.

   Two were stunt pilots; experienced men from the pre-war Russian display
team.  In addition, he'd managed to poach a pilot from Novgorod complete
with his Yak 9D.  This was no small triumph as Russian High Command,
Stavka, had been told to expect a German attack on the Central Front after
the thaw.

   Even so, the Squadron that anxiously awaited the British was a patchwork
thrown together.  There were 18 aircraft all told, four La 5s, seven Yak 9s
of various models, three MiG 3s and four LaGG 3s.  Together with the
British Squadron's 14 Hurricanes, this was to be the fighter defence of the
Stalingrad area in May 1942.  As the ranking Officer, John was to be in
command of the grandiloquently titled, 400th Allied Commemoration
Interceptor Air Regiment 'Volga.' An insignia had been devised featuring
the British and Soviet flags.

   Top brass had been arriving all morning, including General Rokosossky,
Commander of the Volga Military District.  The local Party notables had
turned up for the reception as well.  They all made John decidedly
uncomfortable, as he was not a natural diplomat.  Rokosossky, well into his
sixties and looking forward to a quiet war, had the habit of calling John,
'my lad.'

   "Well done, my lad, an excellently turned out unit," he gushed, clapping
John on the shoulder.  In reality, he wasn't too pleased with having the
spotlight turned on his command either.

   That morning a temporary stage had been constructed and the aircraft
spruced up and set in a neat row.  The airfield had been cleared of slush
and the prefab buildings all given a coat of paint.

   At twelve there was a droning of engines and everyone rushed outside and
took station.  Hoving into view was a lone Litvinov Li2 transport, a
licence built American Douglas DC3 Dakota.  It lumbered around the circuit
then bumped down in a flurry of powder snow.  The Officials threw their
hands up in frustration and retreated back inside.

   John lingered to watch the Li 2 taxi towards one of the hangars.  As the
Shvetsov radial engines wheazed to a stop the door was flung open and a
familiar slim figure stood framed, Jana Ivanova.

   --------------------------------

   'Oz' climbed a little and eased back on the throttle so he could do a
head count.  All appeared to be present and he breathed a sigh of relief. A
couple of Russian fighters were providing an escort.  One of the lads in
the squadron told him the Russians do everything in pairs so they could
watch each other.  Someone else decided it was because one was apt to break
down.

   Their reception in Russia thus far had been excellent.  They'd been
feted and praised and no request had gone unanswered.  It seemed important
to the Russians that they should be impressed with their hospitality. 
Whether it was international politics or just some national character, 'Oz'
couldn't tell.

   Their escorts appeared to be a pair of Yak 1s.  They reminded 'Oz'
vaguely of a Curtiss P40 Kittyhawk.  In fact, he mused, most of the Russian
aircraft appeared to have a Western equivalent.  It was either that they'd
stumbled upon the same requirements as other Air Forces and designed
similar aircraft or they'd been assiduously copying everything that came
out of the West, 'Oz' couldn't tell.

   Certainly, Russians had been enthusiastic about aviation from the
beginning.  The World's first four engined airliner had been designed and
built before the 1st World War, the Sikorsky Il'ya Muromets.  It seemed a
possible answer to Russia's transportation problems.  It was a start, even
if it was slower than a freight train.

   The ground below gleamed with melting snow.  It ponded in small lakes
and swelled the great rivers of Southern Russia into torrents.  The land
stretched in all directions broken only by the distant silvery slash of the
Volga.  Their guides pointed the squadron towards this landmark.

   -------------------------------

   Marshal Klimenti Voroshilov was Deputy Premier and Chairman of the
Defence Committee in Moscow.  He'd been tasked with the defence of
Leningrad but had displayed a certain tactical weakness and was replaced by
Zhukov.  He was, though, an efficient organiser and inspiring leader of
men. A new Russian heavy tank, the KV1, was named in his honour.

   A Stalin loyalist, he was in part responsible for the Red Army's
shocking lack of preparedness on June 22nd 1941.  Besides Richard Sorge in
Tokyo, whose personal friend was Eugene Ort, German Defence Attache, other
Soviet spies correctly predicted the day as well as the composition and
objectives of the invasion.  The 'Lucy Ring' of Lucerne, led by German
Rudolf Roessler (Code Name 'Lucy') and known in Moscow as 'the Musician,'
even furnished the names of the Corps Commanders and the exact number of
tanks the Germans had.  On June 18th a German deserter crossed into the
Russian lines near Kovel' and gave the exact time of the attack.  Still
Voroshilov and Stalin weren't convinced.  Sorge and Roessler were all
posthumously awarded Heroes of the Soviet Union in 1964!

   But Voroshilov had keen survival skills and managed to shift the blame
onto People's Defence Commissar Timoshenko and then Chief of Staff Zhukov.
His subsequent promotion perhaps owed more to the fact that he'd
successfully protected the arse of Josef Stalin from criticism and found
other scapegoats to blame for the fiasco.

   But as Jana Ivanova stepped down from the Li 2 to make way for the
Marshal, John knew he had a very big fish on his hands.

   --------------------------------------

   Their escorts led them right to the airfield.  The Yaks circled and went
into land in advance.  'Oz' could see many people on the ground and what
looked like a small band.  A Russian Douglas was parked nearby and a line
of Soviet fighter aircraft lined up on display.  He thought that if the
Germans decided to bomb the place, now would be a golden opportunity.

   He led the Hurricanes into the approach and they lined up in single file
behind him.  One by one they touched down and teams of groundcrew guided
them into parks opposite their Russian opposite numbers.  Only when the
last of the squadron had parked and switched off did 'Oz' unstrap himself
from the cockpit.  He breathed a sigh of relief.  None of them had made a
heavy landing or botched an approach.

   'Oz' watched as groundcrew doubled about making sure everything was
precisely in order for the official reception.  A man hopped onto each wing
of the Hurricanes to assist the pilots.  Another placed a small ladder by
each so the Englishmen could climb down without jumping.  A Sergeant
chatted to 'Oz' in pidgeon English, he couldn't understand a word the man
said.  Standing in a line, 'Oz' could see the first tier of Officers
waiting to welcome him.  'Oz' saw John in the middle, he was unmistakeable,
a good 3 inches taller than the others.

   John had no idea the leader of the visiting Englishmen was 'Oz'
Callaghan.  He stared at the man with growing disbelief, saw him take off
his flying helmet and replace it with a service cap.  Still, he was sure
he'd made a mistake.

   Just then there was a shout and a brass band began to strike up a tune
vaguely resembling 'God Save the King.' The bass drum was being hammered so
enthusiastically it managed to drown out the cornets.

   The Soviet reception committee then looked to their left and saluted as
the British and Soviet flags were run up flag poles.  'Oz' caught the hint
and nodded to his men to do the same.

   After that, a blond woman approached in the uniform of a Major in the
Red Air Force.

   "Welcome," she said, "my name is Major Ivanova.  I'm on the staff of
Marshal Voroshilov, Chairman of the Soviet Defence Committee and Deputy
Premier of the Soviet Union." 'Oz' was stunned, overawed by the occasion.
Obviously this meant a great deal to the Soviet Union.  He was terrified of
making a gaffe.  He managed to stammer a greeting to the Major.  He vaguely
recognised the name as the woman the intelligence men in England had
mentioned was having an affair with John.  If so, he had excellent taste.
"Please, you come this way?" the Major continued, "what is your name?"

   "Squadron Leader Callaghan, ma'am," he told her.

   "Ah!" They walked towards the group of officers.  First Jana introduced
him to General Rokosossky.  The General shook 'Oz's' hand warmly and
saluted.  Down the line he finally stared face to face with his old friend,
now Lieutenant-Colonel Ioann Khrinov.

   John's eyes bulged with recognition and delight.  'Oz' could see he was
straining to maintain decorum.  Rokosossky was looking at them, curiously.
'Oz' didn't want to let his friend down in front of the assembled Brass.

   "Squadron Leader Callaghan, this is Lieutenant-Colonel..." Jana started
to say.

   "That you 'Oz'?" John said, "you old arsewipe!  What the Hell are you
doing in Russia?"

   "Look who's talking?" 'Oz' replied, "y'sure you can talk like that in
front of the General?" he lowered his voice.

   "Rokosossky can't speak English," Jana advised, "you two know each
other?"

   "Spain," John told her.

   "Well, this has been a day of surprises," she said, grinning at John,
"c'mon, we can't keep Voroshilov waiting."

   ---------------------------------

   A hangar had been laid out for the reception, with rows of tables,
bunting, British and Soviet flags, food, and enough booze to ensure all
could be left roaring drunk if they wanted.

   'Oz' was placed alongside Jana so she could translate for Voroshilov,
whose English was poor.  On the other side of the Marshal was Rokosossky
and to the left of 'Oz' sat John, in full uniform.  'Oz' could see his
friend was as nervous as he amid all the Soviet bigshots.  The Marshal and
Rokosossky were due to leave for Stalingrad soon for more official
receptions.  Jana had obtained permission to remain at Leninsk, ostensibly
to assist in settling in the British pilots.

   Voroshilov asked intelligent questions about the Battle of Britain and
the performance of various enemy aircraft.  He told 'Oz' that the Russian
and British forces had much to share with one another and looked forward to
seeing the Hurricanes in combat.  After an hour or so, the General and the
Marshal made apologies and left.  Everyone else breathed a sigh of relief.
That was the signal for the serious drinking to take place.

   John and Jana leaned forward and stared across at one another.  Jana
could see John was dying to ask her questions.

   "Colonel?" she said in Russian, and smiled at him.

   "Lieutenant-Colonel...  temporary," he corrected.

   "Any more booze?" 'Oz' interrrupted.

   "Signal a waiter," John explained in English, then continued to Jana in
Russian, "you work for Voroshilov?  How come?  What do you do for him?"

   "He requested me from from the Reserve...  he needed a pilot.  What do
you mean, 'what do I do for him?' What do you think I 'do for him'?"

   "Hey!  Are you two arguing or what?" 'Oz' asked, bemused.

   "No," John shook his head, "we're discussing business," he explained in
English.

   "Duty!" Jana corrected him in the same language, "there's no business!"

   "Ok!" 'Oz' said, looking from one to the other.

   "So," Jana smiled like a cat and bolted her glass of vodka, "who did you
have to fuck, Ioann Khrinhov?  All that gold on your collar's dazzling me."
She spoke Russian evenly and full of spite.

   "Would you like me to change places?" 'Oz' asked, "I really need to
learn the lingo."

   "I'm sorry, Squadron Leader," Jana said sweetly, "it is very rude of us.
The Lieutenant-Colonel has become quite Russian, hasn't he?" John caught
the barb, but 'Oz' missed it.

   "Yeah," he agreed, filling his glass, "he's 'gone native,' so we say. 
Back home we'd call him a 'Chalky Abo!"

   "'Chalky Abo'?" Jana raised her eyebrows, "I don't know this term."

   "Aboriginal," 'Oz' explained, "in Australia we say a white man who lives
and talks like an Aboriginal is a 'Chalky Abo'."

   "That's very funny," laughed Jana, "'Chalky Abo?' Yes,
Lieutenant-Colonel Chalky Abo!"

   "And what are you?" John said, sarcastically, "Major 'Mistress'?" Jana
immediately bristled.

   "Whoah, kids!" 'Oz' put up his hands, "I feel a little tension in the
air!"

   "I punched you once," Jana snarled in Russian, "don't think I won't do
it again just because you're a bigshot now!"

   "You want we should go behind the hangar?" John asked, also in Russian.

   Jana began to chuckle at the memory.  John's anger dissipated and, he
too, burst out laughing.

   "There, kids!" 'Oz' said, wryly, "that's settled!  And how's that
Spanish lady of yours, John, Benin wasn't it?"

   John and Jana's faces fell, mid chuckle.

   "All right," said John, "she's all right."

   --------------------------------------

   As the evening wore on, some of the band began playing dance music.  The
few women present were in high demand.  Not being nearly enough women to go
around, many of the men danced with each other.

   Jana waltzed with most of the English pilots, those still standing,
while John brooded or talked over old times with 'Oz.'

   "Tell me honestly, John," 'Oz' said eventually, "you and the Major... 
how long?"

   "It's nothing," John replied, gloomily.

   "Aw, c'mon!  You haven't taken your eyes off her all evening.  You been
two-timing Benin?"

   "I...  I don't want to talk about it."

   'Oz' shrugged, "she's a fine looking woman, that's for sure!"

   "What about you?" John asked, "you got a woman tucked away?"

   "Married," he confessed, "a French lady called Catalina."

   "Catalina?  That's Spanish!"

   "Yeah, long story.  She works for MI6.  Something to do with the French
Section.  She can't tell me much."

   "Benin's training for Intelligence," John told him, "the GRU, can you
believe it?  She has to make an oath of allegance to Joe Stalin himself. 
I'd never have believed it a year ago."

   "Well, that's war, you see?  We all end up in places we never thought
possible, eh?"

   "Aye," John agreed, "that's so true!"

   They were interrupted when Jana tottered over.  "Lieutenant-Colonel?"
she said, extravagantly, and held out her arms.  'Oz' winked at him as he
stood.

   ------------------------------------

   Benin felt self-conscious in her Lieutenant's uniform.  She wore the
blue band around her cap with the single red star, the cap that struck
terror and uncertainty in some sections of Soviet society.  But instead of
the NKVD badge on her lapel, she wore the small, plain cypher of the GRU,
Military Intelligence.

   Unlike the NKVD, which was separate from the Military with it's own
chain of command, the GRU was controlled by the Commissar of Defence and
was a section within the Red Army.  Like the NKVD, the Political Police,
the GRU had swollen dramatically following the invasion and now encompassed
a wider variety of roles.

   She was still surprised, however, when she was posted back to Novgorod.
'There is an urgent need for someone fluent in Spanish,' was all she was
told.  It was only after she arrived behind the lines that she found out
why.

   She was met immediately by a GRU Captain who escorted her to a compound
on the East bank of the Volhov.  There, in a reinforced concrete building,
she was taken to a room where two GRU Officers were waiting.

   "We'd like you to translate for us," they told her, "we have a number of
Spanish prisoners, Fascists!"

   "Fascists?" Benin said in surprise, "what are they doing here?"

   "Division Azul is over the river.  Franco sent them to help out his
buddy Hitler."

   "Blue Division?  Falangists?"

   "Falangists," agreed the GRU Officer.

   "Send them in," Benin said in a tone of pure malice, "and, sir, you
don't have to be kind to them on my account."

   "You, perhaps, would like to be left alone with them?" the Officer
grinned.

   "If possible, sir!"

   "Unfortunately, Headquarters want's them alive."

   "Pity!"

   But rather than the hardened Falangist thug she was expecting, the lad
they brought in reminded Benin of a terrified boy.  Fatigue and unspeakable
horrors, were written all over the young face.  He'd obviously had a
terrible time and, unexpectedly, Benin's maternal extincts wanted to
comfort the frightened lad.

   Signs of recent frostbite had swollen and cracked his lips and caused
sores on his face.  His eyes darted about the room, or were downcast as if
he expected to be bludgeoned to death any minute.  The GRU Officer looked
at Benin and grinned at the surprise on her face.

   "Ask him his name and Service Number," he asked Benin.  She repeated the
question in rapid, fluent Spanish, which jolted the boy back to reality.

   "Private Pedro Guzman," he told her, his voice sullen and childlike.

   "Portuguese?" she asked.

   "Spanish...  from Vigo.  My Grandfather was Portuguese."

   "Ah!" Benin translated back for the Officer who carefully noted it down.

   "Senora?" the boy said, "what...  what is to happen to me?" Benin duly
translated for the GRU Officer who explained that he'd probably be marched
back to a detention centre.

   "Providing," he added, "that he's not guilty of any crime.  Ask him his
unit, duty and how long he's been in Russia."

   The lad turned out to be a chef's assistant who'd been in Russia
throughout the Winter.  He'd been captured in a trench raid.  He told them
the Spanish had inadequate Winter clothing and had lost many men to
frostbite and disease.  He added that he wanted to go home to his Mother.
The boy's misery almost made Benin weep.  She had to remember what the
Fascist artillery and dive bombers had done to her beautiful home of
Novgorod to keep her composure.

   "We all of us want to go home," the GRU man told him, "except some of
our homes are occupied by vermin who've left us orphans in our own land.  I
am a native of Minsk," he added, "and I can't go home because your people
have taken over my house and killed all my relatives!" When Benin
translated for the Spaniard he looked down, and in a weak voice he
apologised.  "Your sorrow," the Officer replied, "won't return my Mother to
me."

   ----------------------------------

   Jana danced a little too close to John than was strictly proper.  If
some of the others noticed, they were tactful.  'Oz', however, grinned to
himself as he watched them circulate slowly around the dance floor.  He
thought of Catalina far away and he missed her terribly.  The drink had
started to make him morose and it took the high jinks of some of his men to
snap him out of it.  A drunken English pilot began dancing on a table in a
crude imitation of Burlesque.  John and Jana, however, seemed not to have
noticed.

   "I missed you," Jana confessed, "Kazan is a depressing place in Winter."

   "I missed you too," John told her.

   "Don't lie to me," she snapped, "I know you were with Benin in Gorky. 
Did you fuck her?"

   "Um..."

   "Of course you did, why wouldn't you?  She's pretty and I bet she's good
in bed."

   "Um...  I don't want..."

   "You don't want to talk about it?  Was it that bad?" she teased.

   "No, it was..."

   "Tell me?" she moved closer, "you're getting hard just thinking about
it, aren't you?"

   "Don't, Jana, not here...  in front of all these..."

   "Tables turned, lover?  Remember how you felt me up that day?  In front
of all those bigshots?"

   "I remember."

   "Good!" Her hand snaked down and gave the front of his pants a rub. 
"How does that feel?"

   "I want you," he whispered in her ear.

   "How?" she giggled, "across a desk?  Over a sink?"

   "Anyhow!" He wanted to take her then and there and everyone else be
damned.  The crash hadn't seemed to have left any permanent damage at all,
except for a slight awkwardness to her gait.  Her khaki jacket was open and
her necktie discarded.  As John danced close he could catch a glimpse of
her perfect cleavage.  The memories of those times when he sucked and
nibbled her breasts flashed before his eyes.  Jana deliberately bumped into
his erection with her hip.

   "Your quarters or mine?" she whispered.

   "Mine, it's bigger."

   "Has it a sink?" she grinned.

   "Yes.  And a desk."

   "Then let's go before you have an accident."

   "Follow me in a few minutes," he told her.

   "You sure you can walk?" she laughed, "without tripping over that
thing?"

   ----------------------------------

   John made his way to his quarters and took off his pants and loosened
his shirt.  He was still stiff as a board just thinking of Jana Ivanova and
what they'd be doing shortly.

   He opened the door a fraction and looked out.  It was some minutes
before he could see her strolling nonchalantly towards his quarters.  As he
watched, she fended off a drunk who'd put his arm around her.  Presently
she arrived at the door and took a surrepticious look around to see if
anyone was watching.  Satisfied, she quickly darted inside.  John grabbed
her and kissed her long and passionately.

   "So," she said, a little breathless, "you must tell me about Benin."

   "Why?" he asked.

   "Because I'm curious...  and a little excited!  I'd like to know what
she does for you...  and what you do for her."

   "I don't..."

   "Don't be a spoilsport," she said, rubbing his pants.  "You must tell me
and I'll take off my clothes.  If you don't, well..." she teased.

   "Ok, ok," he said, a little desperately, "Benin...  well, she likes
it... ah...  in the morning."

   Jana began to unbutton her shirt.  "Go on," she urged.

   "She likes to pretend she's asleep and I...  well...  play with her
arse."

   "Mmm," Jana hummed, and took her shirt off.  She turned around and stuck
out her bottom.  "Show me?" John began to caress her, slipping a hand
between her thighs.  "Yes," she sighed, "you have got nice hands,
expressive.  So you play with her arse?  What next?"

   "I slide down her undies."

   "Do it!" she hissed.  Jana had undone her trousers so John pushed them
down.  Next came her panties until she was naked from the waist down. 
"Next?"

   "I slide my dick along her crack."

   "Yes," she gasped, "I'm sure she'd like that!  Baby, let's get on the
bed...  show me what you do to her?" Jana laid down on the bed and John got
on behind her.  He eased down his underpants and freed his cock.  Jana held
him in her hand and slowly worked him.  "Is this how you fuck her, John?"
she asked, "from behind?"

   "Sometimes," he explained, "and sometimes she rolls over on her back
and..."

   "And?"

   "And we do it...  with me on top."

   "And how do you want to do it now?"

   "On top," he groaned, "I want to see you...  see your tits...  look into
your face when..."

   Jana shuffled onto her back.  She'd taken off her bra and her breasts
lay on her chest, magnificent as they always were.  "You want..." she
gasped, "you want me to...  spread my legs?"

   "Yes!"

   "Have I a nice pussy, John?  Is it as nice as...  as Benin's?"

   "Yes, I...  I like it."

   "It's ready for you, baby!" Jana guided John inside her and he eased up
her until he was burried.  She groaned at the sensation, the feeling of
fullness, and the intimacy.  "John," she said as he began to move, "I don't
mind, y'know."

   "About?"

   "That you have...  Benin.  Tell her I'll...  always hand you back... 
afterwards."

   ------------------------------------

   KATZMAREK (C)