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Subject: STORY: "The Patient English"/MrSpraycan
From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>


	Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature.
All persons and most places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or
historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or
condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea.

	Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its
author, MrSpraycan who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is
warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit
or store in public archives.

	As always, I'm quite happy to hear from readers. You don't have to
post big love-notes (or flames) if you don't feel that brave: you can just
e-mail me. This version is very slightly different to the one that ran in
the [new, spam-free] soc.sexuality.spanking group this weekend.

	/aka MrSpraycan



THE PATIENT ENGLISH
	by Countess Maria-Theresa Hannelore Wittgenstein
	as told to MrSpraycan

Call me Hanna, please.
	I'm in London. It's Christmas Eve 1980, and my boyfriend's due to
visit. Oh, we're not speaking of some great trans-European odyssey that has
to be undertaken. Just a tube ride (one change) from Paddington to Swiss
Cottage. He's another manager in the equities department of the small
Austrian bank where I work. Sad to say, he's married. But not, I think, for
much longer now. He hasn't told his wife it's a day off at the bank. So,
hey ho and off to work he goes.

	My son Rudi has just left for his day school, so we're going to
party. And the first item on the agenda, hum, well it's this curious
fellow's idea. He says he will arrive at my town house around 8:45am, and I
should be waiting. He wants me to undress him in the front hallway, behind
the semi-transparent glass door, and hang all his clothes up in the little
coat cupboard there. Why? I'm not sure. But listen, why not?

	Because I needed to get some extra groceries, I've already been
out, so I'll stay dressed, and he'll be nude for breakfast. One of his
strange little fancies. Well, you know the English. Crazy, but harmless.

	I like this guy, a lot. He's such a big different to Helmut, my
miserable, intense balding ex-husband, the suicidal cigar-puffing driver of
the big silver Mercedes, the champion beer drinker. The pig, really, in so
many ways. Poor Helmut, dead to tailgating at 40. And the Englishmen is so
unlike many recent boyfriends. There have been rather a lot. The succession
of neurotic, semi-gay Americans with their bizarre food fads and frowns
about smoking and drinking, the strange pear-shaped north German banker
with his cloud of gloom. The Indian doctor, with his Kama Sutra mind. That
black guy, pretended to be a musician, but I'm sure was a dope dealer.
Several portly little Englishmen from the banking community with great
self-esteem and big bellies.

	I deserve better than most of these! I'm tall, thin and blonde,
very 'German-looking', whatever that means to the English (they say it all
the time, with a strange nod of the head). They say, and I don't exactly
know what this means either, that I'm 'horsey'. Is it a compliment? Maybe
not. They do love horses, that's certain.

	I suppose I look okay, but I'm too concerned about my stagnant
career at the tiny Neue Salzbergische Credietanstalt und Handelsbank fuer
Ostlandischeverfahrenstecnik & Co KGa to worry about that kind of thing.
I'm going through a drab phase, so unlike now. I wear very boring suits and
blouses, and keep my hair piled up in what the Englishman calls my Princess
Leia style. Well, he likes it a lot. He has a sort of rakishness,
recklessness. Something I like in men. The other Brits treat him rather
distantly, since he's not one of them. Oh, he went to some minor public
school, but there's something about him they detect: some minor racial
imperfection, a hint of a plebian accent, a motorbike, and far too great an
interest in women.

	He was very patient in pursuing me, very subtle apart from a few
uninvited gropes and squeezes at boozy office gatherings. Of which there
are a lot, this being London. Despite all the warnings I'd been given about
golddiggers, he's not much impressed by money, though I have much more than
him. That's the way the corporate relocation policy works, with allowances
and tax deals.

	Yes, I'm drawn to him, and we talk a lot. His wife is a big boring
lump of a woman, who I've seen once or twice meeting him after work. She
doesn't deserve him. He was about 30, and I was about 38 at the time we
first met. We started meeting more often at lunch, and he asked me several
times if I wanted to go out in the evening. Eventually, I did. And, you
know how it goes, especially in a boozy environment like London. You move
from discussing the general to the particular, you trade little compliments
and smiles. You talk yourself into it as much as being seduced. Pretty
soon, he was mine, or vice versa.

	Sex with us is good, from the start. He's very eager to please,
makes sure I come. He has some strange, but not unpleasant habits, which
I'll mention here. I like the way he touches his nipples, though I never
get a proper reply that makes sense when I ask him what it means. He's also
quite uninhibited about touching his cock in front of me, too. Another
English schoolboy thing? Not altogether bad. He's taught me a lot I didn't
know about long slow handjobs and sucking, made me quite an expert. He's
the first man I've ever seen masturbate, and I not only retained my respect
for him (he's very giving, affectionate), but it excited me too. He came
all over both of us, and I felt quite peculiar and disoriented afterwards.

	That Christmas eve morning is very chilly, there's even snow in the
forecast, so he's very thoroughly dressed, in boots, scarves and hat. I
take his heavy, cheap wool coat, but he stands there expectantly, almot
disappointed that I'm not taking the lead. I want to be sure, that's all.

	He means it, it's plain. So, I undress him like a little kid, strip
him right down to his socks and pants. Now, you rarely see the English in
less, even in the bedroom. But he wants them off too, and hung up. Really,
darling? Happy to oblige.

	"Upstairs?" he asks, standing there with a big friendly erection
pointing up at me. That's something else I like, he's always ready for it.
You get to value the eager ones, as you get older. And he does have a
sizeable penis, matched with excellent technique.

	But, no, not just yet, I decide; it's time for me to make the
moves. "Not right away," I tell him. I take him into the kitchen. It's very
open and spacious, with a breakfast bar, a table. He's very nervous, even
though the venetian blinds are drawn. The nanny's room is in an extension
on the back of the house, and the corridor to it leads just off the
kitchen. Jeanette is here today, though she'll be leaving in an hour or so,
going home to her family in Edinburgh for a couple of days.

	He's very anxious. "What if, well, if Jeanette, I mean, uh?"

	 I shrug. "Oh? She's fond of you. Don't worry, she won't be
offended. She's not a schoolgirl, just looks young enough to still be one.
And she knows we're lovers..."

	"But...?"

	"Just relax. You're the one who wanted his clothes taken off,
aren't you?"

	I take my time, light a cigarette, make coffee, and toast, and
finally give him the tray.
	"Now, then. Up you go."

	As we leave, I hear Jeanette is moving about. A door opens as we
glide out of the kitchen. Hmm, a close one.

	In my bedroom, two flights up, the curtains are open, though there
are translucent lace ones in place. Always are. At night, you can't see in
if the lights are low, and in daylight, that's what bedclothes and nighties
are about. There are not too many direct views, just a few upper rooms of
neighboring houses. But do you know something? I don't care.

	"Into bed, you," I order.

	He hesitates, but walks into the room, which is bright with the
morning sun.

	"Go on. You're some big exhibitionist, you are," I mock. Some
pigeons fly off the window sill. "Oh, you scared them with it, alright."

	I notice that I'm about four inches taller than him in my street
shoes, though I'm only a little bit taller in bare feet. I go to take a
pee, and come back to find him reading the newspaper, his coffee perched on
the side table, playing unconsciously with his cock.

	I sit down next to him, put an arm round him. I love this. Being
dressed, having a young naked guy, wanking in my bed. Reminds me of the
delicious time I came home to find him fresh in from some conference
overseas. He'd come straight here as arranged, been let in, undressed,
showered, gone to bed. I'd woken him up in spectacular fashion with my
mouth on his prick. I think he's good for me: I'm losing my prim south
German reserve.

 I kiss his shoulder, his neck. Then his ear, puttind my tongue in it. He's
putting the paper down.	I take his hand off his cock, and find it's sticky.
I sniff it. Delicious, very horny. I tell him: "Oh, you're very sexy today,
aren't you? Did you like mummy taking your clothes off, is that it?"

	The way he wriggles with pleasure, the eagerness of his kiss, the
fact he doesn't say a word: These signs all convince me, I'm right about
this.

	"We have all day, and I expect to be treated like a goddess, not
just screwed," I tell him. "I want to be kissed all over, shown lots of
respect." He begins to unbutton my skirt, my blouse. He loves to suckle, to
lick.

	For me, and for him, the highspot is early afternoon, just before
Rudi's due home. We're in the '69' position for the first time, me on top,
legs spread wide. I don't know why we haven't done it before. It's the
natural choice, given our preferences. We're both very oral. I'm savoring
his heavy breathing rustling on the hairs round my asshole, enjoying his
tongue licking my clit, scooping up all the goop that's dripping out of me.
I've had guys who have been badly turned off by that, but he loves it. The
taste, the smell, the sheer volume of it. Just eats it up, as they say. I'm
not very into this feminist stuff, but there are things to be said. The
traditional female stuff is such a tyranny. So I wash every other day,
don't shave my legs or underarms, don't touch my bush with anything in the
way of deodorants. I suppose I'm a bit smelly, but it's good womanly
smelliness.

	He's moaning away happily. And I've got his big sausage in my
mouth, and it's going to come just from sucking, for sure. I reach back,
steer him just a little with my hand. Of course it's clean. You'd never
have to needed to tell the German banker, but . . . suddenly he gets the
idea, and he licks my asshole experimentally. "Right," I say, about as much
as I can with a big mouthful of penis. I can tell he's doubtful. Another
little lick. Then, sensing how much I like it, he's alternating between it
and my pussy, getting even more excited. I'm having massive contractions,
after about two hours of non-stop licking. I must have come about fifty
times already. But, you can never have too much . . .

 The pace quickens, and soon we come together, timing it almost perfectly.
He fills my mouth, pumping out so much semen it's squirting everywhere,
dripping from my chin, making a lovely, horrible mess.

	After, he's so happy, so am I. It's Christmas, after all. We're
like two giggly kids. Both naked, soaked in sweat and filthy. He's got
pussy juice all over his face, it's dripping off his chin. It's all over
his chest and belly, so much it's glueing his hair down. I've got semen in
my mouth, on my chin, on my tits, in my eyebrows, my hair. I kiss him, and
feed him some of his spunk with my tongue. Our tongues are probing and
locking round each other. He has one of my tits in his hand, and he gasps:
"Hanna, you're fantastic." I wish I had a photograph of us like that,
bedraggled and exhausted, yet totally invigorated by hours of sucking and
fucking.

	Regretfully, I get up. I shower first, because it's
home-from-school time coming up. Oh, well.

	When he's dressed, ready to leave, he appears in the kitchen.
Rudi's watching TV, with his tea already made, ignoring us. I watch him
walk to the door, put his coat on. I catch up with him again. I ask:
"Today's secret message was submission, wasn't it?" I say, teasing him a
little. He looks rather defensive. "The undressing, doing as you were told,
licking where I said, doing everything I wanted."

	He's a little nervous, licks his lips, and I burrow inside his
clothes to tweak a nipple. I give him a very smelly, freshly dipped hand to
kiss. Oh, the expression on his face. This was a good guess on my part.

	"Hanna, you know what I want," he starts. Or maybe that's all of
it. He's not a big talker when it comes to emotional issues.

	"I think I do," I tell him. "Remember that dinner party, way back,
at my other place in Islington before I moved here? When I said I didn't do
any of that 'English stuff'? Didn't understand what it was about? Thought
it was all rather infantile?"

	 He nods.

	"Well, maybe I changed my mind."

	He hugs me, tightly. "Hanna. Oh, god. Yes, yes . . .Will you? Please?"

	"Soon," is all I say.

	"Will you . . . spank me?" He's trembling with excitement.

	"Yes, among other things. Just wait and see . . ."


	A long few days. Then, it's December 27. The bank's closed but he
puts together the same excuse, with the same idea in mind. The very same,
except when I have him naked, I ask him to kneel and kiss my shoes in the
hall, then take them off and kiss my feet. He's very anxious, worked up. My
toes get sucked, which is very nice. A surprise, a bonus. He is a very
submissive man, I can see.

	To the kitchen we go. Now, my surprise for him. On the counter,
neatly wrapped, a belated present. He opens it. He turns to me, eyes wide.
A pair of heavy chrome-plated police handcuffs, a key.

	"For me?"

	"For us. . ." I tell him. "Don't you want to put them on?"

	He looks at me.

	"Scared?"

	"No, but, well, won't you put them on me...?"

	"Happy to." I take his left wrist, half turn him, grab the other,
pull them together behind him.

	"Behind me?" he gasps.

	"Yes, you wank too much sometimes. So today I'm going to stop that,
and if there's any playing with your tool needed, I'll be the one who's
doing it."

	I sit him on a bar stool. I touch his nipples, french kiss him,
squeeze his cock. He's eagerly responding.

	"Like them?"

	"They're beautiful. I always wondered . . ."

	"Stay there."

	I leave for a minute, come back with a brown bag.

	"I didn't have time to wrap everything, darling."

	 His mouth is hanging open as I produce a leather dog collar, a
long chain leash. I put it on him. Then, some rope. I tie his ankles to the
legs of the stool.

	I leave him there, pour coffee, then go down the side corridor. I
return a minute later, with Jeanette right behind me.

	He's panic stricken. He gasps, turns white, and groans loudly, "Oh
my god! Are you mad? Hanna, what are you doing!? No!"

	But there's nothing he can do.

	"Quiet!!" I tell him, raising my hand to slap his face. Jeanette is
grinning from ear to ear, happy to see this show.

	She steps up to him. She's small, with short ginger hair with
bright blue eyes, white skin. Quite pretty, but no beauty.

	"Well, hello there. Is it summer already, then? Seems like it was
just Christmas," she teases in her thick Scottish accent. "Oh, look, your
little gingerbread soldier's saluting me!"

	She touches it, strokes his shoulders, grabs and lifts his chin so
she can look him in the eye. He's blushing brightly now, and he's quivering
with tension.

	"Oh, you're a strange wee one, aren't you? I thought Miss Hanna was
kidding me, but no..."
	She's got her hand on his cock. She's rubbing him, quite well too.
She has had plenty of practice, it's plain.

	"Hanna says you do this a lot, is that right? You even do it while
she watches?" she continues, enjoying his embarrassment.

	He's speechless.  "That's very dirty! I have to smack young Rudi if
he plays with his 'thing' too much. Did you know that? And did you really,
oh, I don't know how to say this, did you really lick her bum?"

	He's bright red, at this. I think he was very angry I'd told her
something as shameful as this. Well, why not? After all, he had! And like
it or not, he was going to again. I was quite determined to have him lick
my anus properly today. If he was going to submit, I was determined it was
going to be total submission.

	I sip my coffee, then ask: "Well? Interested?"

	"Oh yes, are you kidding?" Jeanette says. "Oh, you bet I am. The
front room?"

	"Why not? Yes. Let's," I agree, bending to undo his ankle ropes.
"Oh, did you sort something out, like you said?"

	"Yes, a nice big leather strap."

	"Oh no!" he protests.

	"Oh yes," we chorus.

	"You asked for it," I say.

	"Hanna . . ." he pleads.

	"And you deserve it for being too quick to grab yourself when you
take your clothes off. It's disrespectful, Jeanette says."

	"Very disrepectful," she echoes.

	"So you're going over my knee. I think smacking your bottom will
make you remember who's in charge here."

	"Yes, and it's so English," Jeannette explains.

	"Just a little bottom warming," I confirm, "and then you can show
Jeanette how nicely you groom a girl's pussy, can't you?"

	He stares at her.

	She's chuckling. "I did like you said Miss Hanna, I mean, I don't
have my knickers on."

	"Now, you're on the pill aren't you?"

	"Yes . . . "

	"No condoms, then. . . ."

	"Yes, miss."

	"And I take it you're, uh, in the mood, for, uh?"

	She nods, turning bright pink. "Very."

	"Good, he likes to lick."

	She giggles. "Oh, he is a filthy one!"

	"And that's why you put out the strap, isn't it?"

	"Yes, miss! Do you think he needs a dozen on the backside?"

	"None of those half-hearted punishments, Jeannette. Let's give him
three dozen, then see what shape his bottom is in . . ."

	"That's cruel!" she says, half-protesting his case for him. "At
school . . ."

	"No, it's merely fair," I tell her. "We're not at school. He's a
grown male, and we'll punish him like one. Now, all you have to decide is
whether to have him bend over and touch his toes,  or lay over your lap, or
. . .  whatever you want."

	She's smiling again. "Oh, this will be fun. But, um, aren't you
going to spank him yourself, Miss?"

	"Oh, I certainly am. But let's see him get into the mood with you
first. Then I can show him a few more tricks he won't be prepared for,
can't I?"



	December 31. Late evening. We've been out drinking from the office,
until we're the last two left.	At the door to my house, we enact our our
regular routine. All his clothes come off, and are just piled up on a
chair. The handcuffs, collar and leash are hidden in one of my spare coat
pockets. On they go, then I leave him on his knees, tethered, while I go
upstairs for ten minutes to pee, and get changed. I come back in my long
black silk nightgown, with bare feet. Some foot worship takes place right
there: I'd teased him about it in the pub. I observe he has a few marks on
his ass, but he still got off quite lightly, that time.

Then, off to the kitchen. Coffee, and a brandy each. He's looking round
anxiously. The TV is blaring down the corridor. Eventually, a door opens,
and Jeanette appears, looking sleepy. Wearing just a pair of flannel pajama
bottoms, a teeshirt. "Heard the car," she starts. Sees him, smiles broadly.
"Oh, nice!"

	He sips his drink, nods politely.

	"Want to?" she asks me.

	"Definitely. Did she . . .?"

	"She's here. And Ruth, too."

	"Ah. Even better."

	We lead him to her small, funky bedroom. It's been made gloomy on
purpose, by her decor. But the scent is what gets me: if you bottled female
frustration, it would smell like this does, on evenings like. As the door
opens, we all get a rear view of her best friend Diane, in just a brightly
striped rugby shirt, nothing else. She's kneeling on the bed, rubbing.
Ruth, another friend in her late twenties, is laying in a chair facing us,
her skirt pulled up to her waist, rubbing herself, squirming, showing her
spread crotch to Diane. There's a few hours of pent-up lust on her face.
We're expected, it seems. These girls spend a lot of time in each others'
company, and it's plain that my long-held suspicions about mutual sexual
games is justified. The other two are barmaids, I think. Quite attractive,
in that perky, semi-sluttish way some Englishwomen are, before they turn
into dragons.

	"Party time, ladies!" I announce.

	 I turn to him. "I hope you're thirsty, liebchen, because my
panties are soaked through." He's staring. A lucky night for a man with a
dirty mind, this. I whisper: "And the girls are going to be good and wet
too, by the smell of this room . . ."

	The two girls are smirking, and Jeanette has tossed aside the
teeshirt. Big, firm tits, nipples erect. She unfastens the pajama bottoms
and lets them fall, too. Quite a bush, in fiery red.

	"The strap and the cane tonight," I hear Jeanette tell the others
in a loud whisper.

	"The cane, oooh" I hear Ruth sigh.

	I slap his backside to make him step inside.

	"Poor thing, you're in for a very sore ass, I think," I tell him.

	The huge leather strap and a long thin bamboo cane are prominently
displayed on her cluttered dressing table.

	"Now, who's first for a good licking?" I ask.

	"He'll lick *anything*," Jeanette reminds them.

	Ruth, still kneeling on the bed, lifts her rugby shirt off and
tosses it aside. She drops to her elbows and knees, her big white backside
high in the air, She gives a little moan of delight,  and says: "Then,
let's start here . . ."

	Jeannette is asking around the room: "What does he deserve? How
many? Tell you what, let's start off at sixty and work our way up."



	Several days later, I corner him in my office and tell him to
arrange to get a few days off.

	"Yes, okay. But, why?"

	"We're going to Scotland this weekend, by car. But we'll need a bit
longer."

	"Oh?"

	"To see some friends. To play. Come on, you loved New Year's,
didn't you? Oh, I might as well tell you now. You're going to ride with
Jeanette and Diane on either side, and you're going all the way in the
nude, in chains. Right from here, the bank. I'm going to undress you in my
office after most of the staff have gone, and take you down the back
stairs, on your leash, without a stitch on. We can wait in the alley for my
car to pull up. Ruth's driving. Like that?"

	He's nodding, intrigued at my hugry expression.

	"Jeanette's sister and some friends are housesitting for the Earl
of Duickness, who's awa' in the south of France, as they say. He has a
lovely old castle, just across the border. And when you get there, my fine
fellow, you're going to put on a little show. Since you're so fond of
wanking . . ."

	He's staring at me, mouth open.

	"Jeanette has arranged an outing for some friends from the local
teacher's training college. So there'll be, oh I don't know," I shrug, "At
least thirty or so girls her age there. Maybe more. And you're going to rub
yourself off, with them watching."

	He gasps.

	"Then, you're going to suffer, to make up for it. You need to be
publicly whipped as part of your education."

	"Oh, Miss Hanna, please, you can't . . . No!"

	"Sorry, but that's how it's going to be. It's what I want. Not just
your bum. Your back, your chest. A good long birching and whipping. You'll
be tied up, so you can't do anything about it."

	It's hard to tell if he's shocked or excited now.

	"You musn't! Oh, why?"

	"You can blame yourself. Because of those filthy books you loaned
me. I didn't think so much of 'The Story of O,' though it would have been
lovely if she was a man. But the De Sade and von Sacher-Masoch were very
interesting. Which is timely, because the castle, you see, has a dungeon, a
torture chamber, and all kinds of medieval treats . . ."

	"Oh no . . ."

	"Oh yes, darling. So that's where you're going next, soon as we're
through whipping you. Don't be such a silly schoolgirl. It's what you need,
very badly. To be tortured. Don't pretend. I see the way you respond to me.
What makes you hard. I hear the things you say. You need to be humiliated
and severely punished. So, you're going to be. Now, unzip yourself."

	He looks around. The door's pushed to, mostly closed. No one's
watching.

	I have his prick in my hand. "Just look at this. It's disgraceful."

	"Oh my lady . . ."

	"Well? Isn't this the proof? See how hard it is?"

	"Yes, my lady . . ."

	"And why is it hard?"

	"B-b-because you're going to hurt me . . ."

	"Good! And this time you can look forward to getting a lot more
than just a sore bum. You're going to bleed . . ."

	His eyes are watering. But it's from happiness.

	"Pull your shirt up. Now, undo your trousers. Let them drop. I
should thank you, really. I'd never have thought of pursuing this with any
other guy. But you, that's different. Torturing you is delightful. So
exciting! It makes me wet myself, and I never dreamed anything but ordinary
bedtime fucking could make me feel this good. Are you pleased? Happy you
started sniffing round me now?"

	"Yes, mistress Hanna."

	"You never imagined where your nose would end up, did you? Never
dreamed it would lead to licking me all over, did you? Let alone something
as good as this. . ."

	I rub him, hard.

	Yes, tell him, I decide. "I've never fucked a man before, but, you
know something, I'm going to do it to you . . ."

	He looks nervous, puzzled. But he's also about to come.

	". . . after I beat your ass raw, I'll strap on a great big dildo,
one about twice the size of your cock, grease you up, and fuck you in your
asshole in front of everyone . . ."

	And he lets out a surprised 'oh!' and squirts, all over the cheap
carpet, and my guest chair too.

	"Clean it up, slave," I tell him. "Don't you have any manners?"

	He's on his knees, half-undressed, with his prick still fat and
drooling a long snotty streamer of cum. I hand him some paper tissues, for
the chair.

	I look down at him and say: "Yes, I think you need to be branded,
too." I've lifted my skirt and slip to my waist, my tights are round my
ankles, and I'm sliding my soggy panties down, with the intention of
rubbing his face with them, and maybe getting my pussy licked a little
drier. Sexual frenzy, that's what I'm always looking for.


	Unfortunately, it was not to be. At that moment, Dieter
Rickelsdorf-Unterbrenner, the department head, walked in and saw us. He
went to speak, was struck dumb, turned white, span on his heels with a gasp
of disbelief, and left.

	All my gallant boyfriend could say was: "Oh, Jesus. We're in big
trouble now."

	Dieter returned minutes later with the local managing director, Sir
Roger McGinty-McGough, a purple-faced old blockhead with a horrid temper,
and no tolerance of any office mischief. Though we'd tidied up and were
sitting rigidly in chairs, yards apart, there was certainly a scent in the
air that told them all the story was true.

	To cut a short story shorter, we were both fired, right then. My
boyfriend was escorted from the building within minutes, by a chuckling
security guard. It didn't take much longer with me either, despite my
seniority and pleading. Couldn't I just go on suspension? No.

	Dieter presented me with a voucher for a return airline ticket and
said with that icily polite thin smile: "You have been learning very bad
habits here, Frau Hannelore. Why would you do such a thing? In the office
too! Have you been drinking? You were warned, these Englishmen are quite
nasty. Seducers. And now . . .?" He shrugged. "Well, it is for the best.
The shippers will contact you about packing tomorrow. Auf wiedersehen, or
actually, no, goodbye."

	And now? Well, it got me out of banking and into a totally
different line of business. But I'll have to tell you about that elsewhere,
some other time.

	And my boyfriend? That's another story altogether. But, yes, he
soon escaped his horrible marriage, and found another job. We've stayed in
touch over the years.  I have seen him quite a few times since. Once or
twice we've gotten drunk and tried to recreate those few days out of
nostalgia, but . . . the time has gone.

(c) MrSpraycan 1997



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