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Subject: Alphabet Stories: I - Requested Repost
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                        Interpreter
                        -----------


I adjusted my earpiece, and rested my arms on the table. At the
podium, a Greek representative was banging on about sardine
quotas, a subject that moved him to flights of rhetoric which
bordered on the absurd. Not that I understood a word of it,
directly. A simultaneous translation in English was being fed
to me through the headset by one of the linguists working for
the European Commission. Up and to my left, behind a glass
screen, I could see banks of them, all jabbering away silently.
One of them, of course, was talking to me - though I had no
way of telling which one.

It was a quiet day in the conference hall. I glanced around.
A pathetically-tiny audience had felt moved to come in for
the reading of the Trawler Rights (Aegean Marine Crops) Bill.

All the Germans were there, as usual. The Spanish were out in
force, and an infuriated phalanx of Portuguese were scribbling
like mad, and tutting at the Greek's proprietorial claims on
God's bounty, as represented by the nomadic sardine. I was the
only English speaker in the place - apart from my anonymous
interpreter.

I checked my watch. It was nearly time for my lunch appointment,
which was the only reason I was here at all. I'd give it
another fifteen minutes, and then slope off to O'Donnell's for
a beer with a friend who was something or other in computers.

In my headset, a male voice told me that the waters around the
Dodecanese, which had once positively bubbled with carefree sardines,
were now all sardined-out. This, apparently, was the fault of the
rapacious Portuguese.

This suggestion elicited much outraged arm-waving from the
Lisbon contingent, and the theatrical throwing down of pens.

A beep in my ear signalled the end of my interpreter's stint, and
there was a brief pause before a new voice took up the sorry tale
of the exploited Greek sardine. The new voice was female. Soft.
Breathy. When she predicted that the direst consequences would
befall any fishing fleet to venture beyond the island of Kos, she
made it sound like a saucy promise rather than a constitutional
threat. The debate, I felt, was suddenly looking up.

"It is the intention of the Greek government," I was told huskily,
"to institute a total exclusion zone around the twelve islands,
and to protect this zone by force, if necessary." There was a short
silence, and then, "By *force*. I like a bit of *force*."

I blinked, and put my hand against my cheek, pushing the headset
hard against my ear. Had I heard that right?

"This zone will become operative on the first of next month," the
voice continued seamlessly, "and Athens will issue a directive warning
all member states that any intruding unauthorised fishing vessel will
be boarded by the Greek navy."

I must have imagined it. Obviously I needed a drink.

"*Greek* boarding," my interpreter mused. "Hmm - sounds like fun."

I nearly jumped out of my chair. I looked up at the glass wall
that separated the interpreters from the hall itself. About three-
quarters of the twenty-odd translators up there were women, and most
of them were worth a second look. As the voice in my ear continued
quite normally to translate the speech, I tried to lip-read those
faces that were visible, attempting to synchronize what I could
hear with the movement of the mouths. It was hopeless. The mikes
they wore obscured my view.

I shook my head and turned to face the podium again, concentrating
hard on the translation in my headset. The interpreter had a slight
accent - a very, very slight one. I guessed that she was German, or
Dutch - the giveaway being an almost inaudible tendency to soften the
letter 'S'. She said 'schtandard' rather than 'standard', but to write
it like that overstates the effect. It was more like a lingering over
consonant - "s/tandard".

"This measure is vital to s/upport our s/eamen... and we all know
the value of s/eamen, don't we?"

"Oh, God," I groaned aloud, and glanced up towards the gallery
again.

I'm ashamed to say that I had an erection - and not a half-hearted
one either, but the sort that, like hope, springs eternal. I
surreptitiously adjusted the front of my trousers.

There was a lewd chuckle in my ear. "Both hands on the table, please.
If I can keep my hand out of my panties, surely you can keep
yours off your cock?"


Up at the podium, the Greek was coming to the end of his speech. The
Portuguese were flinging down their headsets and storming out of
the Chamber, and up in the gallery, the interpreters were also
taking off their mikes and getting up to leave. I watched them all
closely, looking for a clue. A tall blonde, stretching as she stood,
looked down at the floor of the hall. I caught her eye and gave a
little quizzical twitch of my eyebrows and a speculative grin.
She smiled back and then turned and walked out of sight towards
the exit.

By the time I'd pushed through the jam of Mediterraneans at the
main door of the conference room, she was nowhere to be seen.



                *               *               *


The Commission's agenda for the following day kicked off with the
Traffic Signs (Standardization) Draft Proposal. Not wishing to miss
a single syllable of this fascinating initiative, I was in my seat
at 9:29.

As the speaker took the podium, I heard in my headset the faint
fizz of the channel being opened. I hoped to God it would be the
filth-flirt on duty today, and not some boring guy with a voice
like a message service.

The proposer of the Traffic Signs legislation began to speak in
Flemish, and immediately that sussurating tone came through in my
ear.

"The s/tandardization of traffic s/igns has been the s/ubject
of much s/tudy over the last s/ix months..."

I turned to look up at the gallery, scanning for the tall
blonde.

"...and our conclusion is - don't look! Face the front!"

Startled, I did as I was told.

"You musn't look," the voice continued, firmly. "That's the rule.
S/cratch your head if you agree."

I scratched like a dog hosting a fleas' all-nighter.

"Good," she said more gently. "Now we can have some fun. If I ask
you a question s/cratch your head for 'yes' and push your glasses
up to the bridge of your nose for 'no'. Understand?"

Scratch, scratch.

"Fine. Did you think about me last night?"

Scratch.

"Oh, good. I thought about you. Do you know what I did?"

I pushed my glasses up my nose, hoping that she'd tell me.

"Would you like me to tell you?"

Frantic scratch, scratch, scratch.

"I masturbated," she whispered. "I played with my cunt until it
was s/opping wet, and then I pushed my fingers in and out
until I came. Do you like to imagine that?"

Scratch, scratch.

"Would you like to have seen me fingering my clitoris?"

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

"And taste the hot juice running out of my tight pussy?"

Scratchscratchscratch.

I was practically drawing blood from my scalp by this time.
My hair was likely to fall out in handfuls.

"Your cock's all big and s/tiff now, isn't it?"

I didn't even bother to answer that one.

"I'd like to see your cock," she whispered. "I'd like to
run my hand up and down it. I bet you've got a really big one,
haven't you?"

It ill-becomes a chap, I think you'll agree, to brag. On the
other hand, given the binary choice between a confident
affirmative and a sheepish negative, who would plump for the
latter? I considered for a moment, and then took off my glasses
and scratched my head with them.

There was a delightful giggle in my ear. "So modest, you English!
Perhaps *I* should decide, hmm? Why don't you get your cock out,
so I can make up my own mind?"

Shocked, I put my glasses back on and shoved them firmly up to
the bridge of my nose. Then, for emphasis, I pulled them down
a little, and whacked them back up again. I mean, a joke's a joke.

Again came the husky laugh. "Oh, come on. There's no one in your
row. No-one can see from here but me. Just pull it out and lean
back a little. I'll bet you're dying to give that shaft a little
s/troke, aren't you?"

This, actually, was the simple truth. Beneath the table, the
Old Avenger was throbbing away like a sump-pump in a waterlogged
basement. It could really do with some fresh air.

Tentatively glancing left and right, I pulled down the zip of my
herring-bone worsteds, and fished inside for my strangled dick.
I negotiated it through the hole of my boxers and it boinged free.
I leaned back just a tad, resisting the temptation to look up
at the gallery.

"Turn a touch to your right," came the instruction in my ear. Aha,
so she was a little behind me! "Just a bit more... Wow!"

She gave an appreciative whistle, and I glanced down at my cock.
To tell the truth, I was pretty impressed myself. The last time
the faithful servant had looked that size, I'd been an insecure
seventeen year old with a copy of Forum in one hand and a
magnifying glass in the other.

"S/troke it," she commanded.

I stroked it.

"S/troke it harder," she suggested, gulping slightly.

I stroked it harder.

"And faster," she gasped.

I stroked it both harder and faster. This was getting dangerous.

"I have my hand under my dress," she breathed. "I'm touching my
cunt. Can you imagine me touching my cunt?"

Being right-handed, it didn't occur to me to do anything other than
break off from pulling the pole in order to scratch my head. In fact,
I was rather glad of the opportunity to give myself a break. The
truth was that I could imagine her touching her cunt only too
clearly. I could see the parted thighs, the pulled-aside underwear,
the thrumming fingers. I could see the flush on that pale face framed
by blonde hair, and the hair itself, damp and sticking to the forehead.
I was about to give free rein to thoughts of erect nipples and swelling
breasts when her voice came urgently in my ear.

"A man is coming along the tier behind you. Put it away!"

Only a woman could think it was that easy. I hunched forward against
the table with both arms in my lap, as someone took the seat directly
behind mine. My dick was showing no signs of subsiding as a hand
tapped me on the shoulder.

"Bonjour, George," said my assistant Jean-Pierre. He nodded towards
the podium. "Anything important come up?"

I turned my head a fraction and smiled weakly. "Nothing I can't
handle," I told him, in a strangely high-pitched voice. "Listen,
you couldn't pop back to the office and deal with the mail, could
you?"

When he was gone, I forced my member back into my trousers, and *very*
carefully zipped up. In my headphones there came a long peal of
laughter.

"Oh, dear - that was close. Did you come?"

I pushed my glasses sulkily up my nose.

Again the giggle. "S/orry. I did. Twice."

Without looking around, I sarcastically mimed applause. I was pretty
teed-off, I can tell you.

"Listen," she said, whispering again, "do you know La Boheme - it's
a bistro near..."

I scratched my head. I knew it.

"S/even o'clock tonight, yes?"

Scratch, scratch.

"Good. Until s/even then."



                *               *               *


I scanned the bistro for a tall blonde, but she was nowhere in sight.
This wasn't surprising, as it was ten past six. I like to be punctual.
I took a seat at a table near the back and ordered a bottle of
Australian Chardonnay. I do this for no other reason than to upset the
French proprietor.

At five to seven, she came in, looked around casually and took a stool
at the bar. Evidently, she hadn't spotted me. I was about to bound over
and point myself out, when I realised that this might be part of the
game. The woman was evidently keen on theatrical intrigue, and I didn't
want to cramp her style. So I stayed put, and simply stared at her.

After about five minutes, she looked in my direction, and I raised a
hand, waggling my fingers in a conspiratorial fashion. She smiled and
nodded slightly. I nodded back, grinning a grin that must very nearly
have joined up round the back of my head. She turned away and reached
down for her purse from which she took a pack of Gauloise. She lipped
one and lit it. That, I reasoned, would explain the husky voice.

She was ignoring me again, the little tease. I had half a mind
to stroll over there and... no, she was looking back my way. I
beckoned to her with my hand and pointed to the empty seat beside me.
She smiled again, and appeared to consider the move and then shook
her head, amused. I scratched my head furiously. She leaned across
the bar and ordered a beer, which she raised to me. That, I reckoned,
constituted permission to move in. Beneath the table I adjusted my
stiff dick so that I could walk unaided and, picking up the bottle
of wine, I weaved between the tables and hauled up beside her.

"Your grasp of English," I whispered in her ear, "is sufficiently
good, I suspect, that you know the meaning of the word 'pricktease'."

She turned and looked me straight in the eye, a little surprised,
but still with that amused expression.

"Oh, yes," she muttered, nodding.

I had the measure of her now - and I felt it was time she got some
of her own medicine.

"And that really gets your snatch wet, doesn't it - winding a poor
chap up? That really causes the old pussy to juice and pucker,
knowing that my cock is hard for you."

That got home all right. She looked from side-to-side, taken aback
that I'd turned the tables on her.

"Maybe," she admitted.

"You know it does," I insisted, low and throaty. I took hold of her
wrist, and pulled her hand to the front of my trousers. I rubbed
her palm along the length of my shaft. "See? My stiff cock is simply
dying to be plunged into your cunt. I'm going to shoot so much
cum up you that it'll be coming out of your ears."

Now, I'm not claiming that this is the most eloquent seduction
soliloquy that you're ever likely to hear, but I was pretty
certain that it made its point. Poetry, no. Pithy, yes. However,
it produced a reaction that came as a shock not only to me but
also to the assembled clientele of La Boheme.

She withdrew her hand from my grasp, stepped off her barstool
and floored me with a straight right that Mike Tyson would have been
proud to call his own. By the time I'd clambered to my feet and
persuaded the room to stop heaving to and fro like a drunk in an
earthquake, she was out of the door and gone.

I slumped onto a barstool and accepted a glass of water from the woman
to my left. I was a little confused, and I rubbed my jaw as much
in perplexity as pain.

"Are you all right?" said the woman, taking the glass from me as
I drained it.

I turned to look at her through watering eyes. She was tall and
saturnine, and had long dark hair that fell across her eyes.

"I'm... Yes. I'll be fine, thanks," I sighed.

"I should hope so," the dark woman said. She held out a hand, in
introduction. "I'm S/ophie," she said. "And I'm going to s/uck
you dry."




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