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Subject: {Kellis} "Hidden Journal: Estri's Escape" (MFg) [4/4]
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Hidden Journal: Estri's Escape [4 of 4]
NOTICE: The following file is one of an ongoing series, transcriptions
of files decrypted from the hidden journal of Harrison Everett Stone.
For a summary of their provenance see the initial file, D910412.ZEN,
included in the release, "Hidden Journal: First Files."
--Kellis. Copyright 1999
File D9104183.ZEN
<Saturday, October 14, 1972>
I awoke to light streaming through opened drapes and Estri propped up
on her elbow beside me, staring lovingly into my eyes. I smiled at the
sight. She immediately smiled back, leaned forward and kissed the stubble
on my chin.
"Good morning, husband."
"Good morning, sweetness. Have you been awake long?"
"I wait for you." Her hand dropped to my chest and wound together a
few short strands of hair. "You feel good, Hah-ree?"
"Oh, yes." I stretched until my back creaked. Indeed I did feel
good! As I relaxed I asked, "Did you sleep well?"
But she had left the bed as I stretched. I raised up and saw her
hurrying to the bathroom, a place that I might profitably visit, too. To
my surprise, the adjacent bed was empty, its covers crumpled at the foot.
I called, "What happened to Anelda?"
Estri paused at the bathroom door. "She leave."
"Do you know when?"
She shrugged. "Already was light."
I had issued the woman a breakfast invitation but could recall no
acceptance. I thought, how like a casual female acquaintance to leave her
man asleep. Then a not-so-casual reason occurred to me. I sprang out of
bed and retrieved my wallet from the britches flung on a chair back. Was
pleased to discover everything apparently as I'd left it, especially the
uncashed traveler's checks. The two air tickets proved still present in
my jacket pocket. I even stooped for my briefcase and verified passport
still in its niche. The only thing missing was Anelda -- and, I saw, all
the stuff I'd bought for her.
As I closed the briefcase, I felt a mild disappointment, realizing I'd
counted on the woman for another shot of whoopee in the morning. I'm told
that new wives, their future committed, enjoying that peak of
self-delusion commonly known as love, are often so enthusiastically
passionate as to exhaust their men, even when the woman herself is hardly
aroused. Anelda's performance last night must have been comparable,
regardless of her motive, whatever it might be. In truth she was a
marvelous lover, a fuckstress <par excellence>, definitely at the top of
the list for a rainy afternoon. The memory alone of her would always be
sufficient to stiffen me. I looked around, hoping to find a note -- and
there it was, peeking out from her pillow.
The handwriting was a scrawl on hotel stationery in the loopy whirls
often affected by American women. Each I-dot was a tiny circle.
Harry,
Thank you for a wonderful evening! I can't recall one more enjoyable.
I have to run now, partly because of you. Our conversation reminded
me of someone at my sister's.
I'll see you later today when you least expect me.
Anelda
When I least expect her! I shook my head, laying the note on the
desk. She had the rest of the morning, I thought, but that was it.
I looked at my wrist-watch: 0830. That's what you call a good
night's sleep!
Estri had returned and stood nearby. She was holding the room's ice
bowl unsteadily in both hands. It was nearly full of water, steaming
slightly.
"Estri, what ..."
She smiled at me. "Take seat on desk, husband."
She seemed so intent on her objective, whatever it might be, and was
so damned cute standing there with an expectant smile, that I couldn't
deny her. I leaned back, plopping my buttocks on the edge of the desk.
"What're you up to, sweetness?"
She sat the bowl and a towel from her arm onto the desk beside me,
wrung out a washcloth from the water and scrubbed it with soap. She
looked up at me and took a breath. "Do wife job, husband." She slipped
between my legs and began to swab my genitals with the warm cloth.
"Estri, I was about to get a shower."
"Still get," she agreed, massaging me tenderly, "but wife wash best
part."
I recalled the similar service in the bed cavern, first by poor Melki,
then by the prepubescent team, then again by Melki and Estri at the
conclusion of my other visits -- except the last. Obviously a Meshir girl
was trained to deliver it to her man. I've seen nothing yet to contradict
the anthropologist who wrote that the principal job of the female in most
human cultures has ever been to keep the male clean.
"Hah-ree, you not anger I go to sleep last night?"
"No, dear, not at all. You needed it."
"I do better next night."
The warm cloth was soothing. "All the Meshir do this, don't they? --
not just wives."
"Yes. For fun. But wife <must> do."
"Do they really think this is fun?"
She grinned. "Trick to feel man part. Fun."
I guess it makes sense: natural curiosity, at least. And I've
noticed that even modest women don't turn their faces away until after
they get a good look.
"I understand, but Estri, outside Meshir they don't do this trick."
She shook her head and declared, "Is mistake, husband."
"What mistake?"
"They do outside Meshir. Elsik-man make Constance do many time, even
on train."
"Did he! You had a private compartment?"
"Compartment?"
"A room to yourselves."
"Yes. Room on train. How do train go, Hah-ree?"
"Eh? The engine pulls it. Did you help Constance?"
She looked up at me, obviously surprised at the question. "Yes, much
help."
"I mean with Elsik."
"I was ..." She appeared to be searching for a word. At last she
continued, "Was helping girl for Constance."
I had to know. "Did you wash his ... penis?"
"Help give all-over bath." She looked up with a twinkle. "When you
penis stand up, it is more big beside Elsik."
I could imagine her listening intently in a Meshir classroom on the
subject, How Best to Flatter a Man.
She laid the washcloth aside, stuffed the towel under me and rinsed me
in wet hands, gently fondling -- with a predictable result despite my
mental picture of the same service rendered to the phantom Elsik.
I discovered that a hard dick -- a bit sore this morning -- in eleven
year-old hands is one thing in the Meshir caverns, something else in a
Western-style hotel room. I suggested to her, "Estri, aren't you hungry?"
"I not bite." And she didn't. But she took over half of it suddenly
into her little mouth. I felt it strike the back of her throat.
"I meant <food>!" I protested.
But her head popped up. "I forget," she muttered, taking up the
trembling bowl and pressing it warmly between my legs.
She paused to laugh at the incongruity of a dick standing at a 45
degree angle. "Can you bend forward, husband?"
She balanced the bowl in one hand while the other depressed my dick.
I stood up, bent forward as directed and cut loose. She seemed pleased as
my liquid splashed. "You health is good, husband."
"What do you mean?" I asked, curious.
"It smell right."
I had to smile. "It <smells> right?"
She nodded. "I can smell if wrong. Then you sick."
"Estri, how could you know that?"
"When sick man come to caves, many virgin girl taste water, learn
smell belong sickness." She smiled at me. "That was why we catch your
water first time: Melki said smell different."
"And did it?"
"Oh, yes. But Constance said you not sick, taste like her dead
husband water. Means only you eat different food." Her eyes gazed
solemnly into mine. "I am so happy you water taste different."
I understood. Otherwise we'd have never met. Otherwise the child
sent to investigate the shooting wouldn't have recognized me. Otherwise
I'd now be a prisoner somewhere in Russia. Otherwise Melki would still be
alive.
Crying over spilt milk is useful only to the extent it prevents
further spillage. It wouldn't help here. I said, "I'm happy, too,
sweetness."
She laughed with pleasure, trotting away with the soiled bowl and
cloths. I stared after her lithe figure, thinking of deaths the Meshir
endure because of disease germs passed to children in the tasted urine --
and wondering what other man might claim to've met his woman because his
piss tasted strange.
I followed her into the bathroom, where she was rinsing the ice bowl.
I suggested, "You've had a bath in a Western tub; let me show you how to
take a shower."
Of course she was eager to learn it. She was delighted at the ease of
regulating the temperature. "What make water cold, Hah-ree?" I explained
about the heated tank and the piping. "Not <hot>, Hah-ree. What make it
<cold>?" I understood at last. In the Meshir caverns warm water bubbles
up naturally. When I explained that the cold was more common in the rest
of the world, she reminded me of my promise to tell her how that could be.
Under the warm water I scrubbed her and she scrubbed me. While doing
her back, I reached around her hip and slipped my finger into her nether
lips. She grew silent and still. Her well-trained clit hardened
immediately, but I verified Anelda's judgment. Neither Elsik nor some
last-minute Meshir ceremony had deflowered my little sweetness. I
gathered her into my arms, kissing her neck and nearby cheek. She
shivered, goosebumps forming, but not because of my finger's continuing
massage. Her hand came up and caressed <my> check. "Beard scratch," she
informed me.
Men may exist who can play with a wet cunt unmoved, but I'm not one,
even if the cunt in question is hairless. My dick rose up into the small
of her back. She spun about within the circle of my arms, crouched and
mouthed it, again deeply as the small throat would allow.
I took her forehead in both hands but couldn't bring myself to
disengage us. No longer able to bob her head, she worked my glans with
tongue alone. She looked up at me with huge, devoted eyes, blinking only
for the occasional droplet splashing off my chest, three quarters of my
dick past her lips, cheeks expanding and collapsing with suction. I guess
these words identify me as a pervert and a child molester -- damn good
thing no one else will ever read them! -- but that was probably the most
viscerally compelling sight of my life. Though her hands were holding my
hips, I could feel her in my balls. Despite three climaxes only last
night, I was suddenly perilously close to another.
"Estri," I said with a gulp, "it's time for breakfast." When that
produced no change, I added, "If you keep on you'll break the Meshir
rule."
That stopped her. She released me long enough to say, "Husband make
new rule."
She would've resumed but that short break restored my self-control. I
took her under the arms, lifted her off her feet and set her out of the
tub after opening the curtain with my foot. She stood, hands on hips,
watching me with a frown as I turned off the water.
"You almost come, husband. Is not good, almost come."
"It won't hurt me."
I got out of the tub, leaning past her for a towel. She caught my
dick in both hands, bringing me to a sudden stop. "Estri," I said
sternly, "we need to have breakfast."
She had already knelt before me. She tilted her head back, looking up
with a wide-eyed, stricken expression. She declared plaintively, "I love
you, husband."
"And I love you," I retorted, "which is why you mustn't do this."
She blinked. Her expression showed real concern. "Very bad, husband
almost come. Wife <must> do! Please, Hah-ree?"
More Meshir wisdom? I said weakly, "You need breakfast."
"Soon have breakfast," she retorted, recognizing my surrender. Her
mouth re-enclosed me.
I remembered what her first taste of me had been in the Meshir bed
cave. This could hardly be worse, except for what it implied in our
future relationship. I had been determined to preserve her from all the
dangers of her primitive environment and provide her the full range of
opportunity available to an American woman. Yet even in Meshir she was
not required to suck out a man's seminal fluid. The Meshir consider
spilling it anywhere beyond a nubile vagina to be a waste and a sin.
"Husband make new rule." In this case I suspect Estri was taking
advantage of that codicil to make her own new rule.
Her estimate was good. We would hardly delay breakfast. She meant to
swallow every drop from me, but I couldn't stand it because of course
she's never learned to ease up during the climax. Will I have to teach
her that? Stupid question.
I can still provide her those opportunities -- except for the likely
fact that one way or the other I'll be in jail this time next year.
She cocked her head at me, the last squirt dripping from her chin.
"Almost no taste, husband. Why not taste?"
"What did you expect?"
She shook her head. "<Some> taste! Maybe like milk?"
Obviously she was surprised. Suddenly I realized: "You never did
this before, did you?"
She smiled hugely. "Never have husband before."
I dried us both with the same towel, giving her face particular
attention.
Good humor restored, she donned her second new dress with all the
underthings, showing how well she'd paid attention to Anelda. When I had
shaved, dressed and taken a seat to put on shoes and socks, she brought me
her hair brush and comb. To my surprise I actually enjoyed working on her
hair. Each stroke of the brush added a bit more luster.
She stood between my legs, her back to me, my arm around her, while
the brush slid down her back. Her small hand sneaked under my belt into
my shorts, found my dick and cuddled it.
"Estri, didn't you get enough of that for awhile?"
"Is not right?" she asked, twisting around to regard me quizzically.
"'Right?' What do you mean?"
"When comb hair, it make comb love work."
"Do you mean ... When one girl combs another's hair ..."
"Other girl rub one girl lump -- no, wrong word. One girl clitoris."
Lesbianism? I'd seen none of that in Meshir, but thinking it over, I
was surprised only that I was surprised.
"Did you rub Anelda's?"
"She do right."
"Right?"
"She was naked, too. She lick me first."
Well, that explained the confident claim of virginity. I took a
breath. In for an ounce, in for a pound. "I'll do that for you, too."
"You already do, Hah-ree. You my first man!"
Again she glanced back at me, eyes shining. But not the first female,
I gathered, of tens or even hundreds. I was tempted to ask who was the
second man, if any. Probably that bastard Elsik, fucking over both my
women. I wanted to laugh at myself. Instead I declared, "I'll do it
again."
"After breakfast," she decided.
I put on a necktie and we went to breakfast in a dining room
surprisingly crowded for a Saturday morning. While we waited for the
maitre-d' to seat us, Estri shrank against me. "I not like public,
husband."
"I'm here, darling. They won't hurt you."
"'Darling,'" she repeated, smiling up to me, apprehension dispelled.
Such confidence from one you love is very gratifying but, god, what a
responsibility!
"Think about practicing your English. For example, you should say, 'I
<don't> like <the> public.'"
She repeated it dutifully, reminding me of her grammar-school
seemliness. Then she grinned. "Drill, drill, drill!"
I nodded. "Constance was right about that, too."
Thinking the eggs would help, I tried her on French toast, drowned in
butter and maple syrup. "Oh, husband, this <so> good!"
"I thought you'd like it. You must remember to say <is>."
"Is?"
"'This <is> so good.'"
She was in a chattering mood and I in an improve-Estri mood, the
result of which was, as she said, drill, drill, drill in English
grammatical forms. Remarkably, no resentment developed. She blithely
repeated every correction, intent on the right pronunciation despite
mouthfuls of French toast. Maybe it was the sweet syrup.
In the process I learned a few things, too -- things I'd as soon not
known. Elsik expects greater personal service from his women than a baby
from its mother. On the long train ride Constance with Estri's help had
shaved him, brushed his hair and teeth, picked his nose, cut his
fingernails, swabbed his ears, bathed him all over as already described,
caught his piss and emptied the bottle, caught his shit and wiped his ass,
dressed and undressed him, sucked his dick two or three times a day --
though to conclusion only once and then in the wife's mouth -- and fed him
his meals while he read a Farsi newspaper, even prechewing the tough
pieces of meat. My god! Just when does Constance suppose she'll have
time to attend to Meshir business?
Estri is clearly prepared to do the same for me, though she admits,
"Could do better, husband, if get me helping girl."
"Say, '<I> could do better if <you> get me a help-- a servant.'"
How to tell her that not even slaves, when we had them, would do all
that in America?
This is typical wifely service in the Mideast? Suddenly I could
understand Constance's wonder at the emancipation of Western women. Did
the original scarcity of white women in the New World account for it?
Presumably the technological emancipation from drudgery in the last
hundred years also contributed.
When I remarked that Western men preferred to do almost all that for
themselves, Estri's eyes widened in astonishment and apprehension. "Then
what left for <wife> to do?"
I said firmly, "She has a life of her own, as you will. Would you
like another glass of milk?"
Thereafter I steered the conversation to the answers for her technical
questions, such as "How does the train go?" Of course I had to talk much
more than she, which usurped her opportunity to study English grammar, but
she likes those subjects almost as much as sexual matters. And I do know
something about them.
On the way back to the room I looked into the snack bar in case Anelda
might be there again -- a vain hope. An Iranian, by his swarthy skin, got
into the elevator with us and said something to me, presumably in Farsi,
when it started up. I shook my head and told him I spoke English. He
looked sharply at Estri, back at me, then spoke to the girl. His tone was
conciliatory. Doubtlessly he expected her to translate. She looked at
him solemnly and nestled closer against my hip.
I said, "She also speaks only English."
"Inglis!" he muttered disgustedly, turning his back on us. No friend
of the tourists here! That's a curious habit, turning one's back to a
stranger. It eloquently expresses contempt but offers no defense against
kidney punch or stab if the stranger is without honor: that is, if the
turner's judgment is correct.
The maids had come and gone. Estri expressed amazement and ran to
check first that my clothing still hung in the closet then that hers still
rested in her drawer. Satisfied on that score, she turned to me in
puzzlement. "Who clean, Hah-ree?"
"Servants of the hotel," I explained.
"Same as wifes?"
"You should ask, 'Are they the same as <wives>,'" I said, reverting to
English teacher. "No, although Western women usually do make the beds and
clean house."
"Ah! Wife have <something> to do ... but not so much fun."
As cleaning up a man? I had to pause, thinking that I wouldn't mind
doing the most intimate things for a woman, especially if I were allowed
frequently to lick tits and cunt and fondle the rest of her. Could it be
that I was overlooking something important in Mideastern attitudes?
Perhaps the difference in East-West gender relations was more fundamental
than I had realized. Did Western women simply feel less attraction to
their men? If so, how to account for that?
Took about a half hour to pack for the trip, so long because Estri
needed to examine everything in my two bags and briefcase. Mindful of my
appointment with the paper merchant, I planned to engage a taxi at exactly
12:55, over three hours away. I called the airport and confirmed our
reservations. Our flight was delayed, which meant we'd have to dally at
the airport because the paper appointment couldn't be changed.
Checkout time was noon, which left us two hours to kill. I wondered
if Estri remembered her postponement of my promise in the bathroom. God,
I am ambivalent about that! Without question I enjoy tasting her sweet
little cunt, and she gives every evidence of enjoying my attention to it.
But are all the psychologists right? Does licking it do her real harm?
She exhibits no guilt now, far from it, but how will she feel a year from
now? What if she should mention it to someone else?
This morning, however, she had other things on her mind. "Hah-ree,
you said to remember question."
"<A> question."
"A question. What makes world -- <a> world -- cold in <a> winter but
warm in <a> summer?"
I gather Meshir has no article, definite or otherwise, in its
language. Neither did ancient Latin. Meshir must definitely be older
even than the Old Norse they speak in Iceland. I should've taught her
about articles but discussed the tilt of the Earth instead. That led all
the way to cosmology. I pulled a spare listing out of the briefcase and
illustrated my points on the back of it. It seems that scientific and
technical issues can easily kill a couple hours, if your audience is a kid
like Estri. What a jewel she is! She hung on my arm, often kissing my
hand or cheek, eyes lighting with pleasure whenever understanding dawned.
I intend to have her tested for genius. She implicitly comprehended the
inverse square law of gravitation and, to my amazement, almost immediately
noted that circular orbits were to elliptical ones as smooth pebbles to
fragmented rocks. She asked with a speculative look, "What rub planets to
make orbit circular -- smaller planets?"
Exactly. She dug tidal effects, too. Zoom went the two hours!
She was worried when I left our luggage under the watchful eye of the
bell captain. I told her his main job was to safeguard guests' luggage.
She sniffed, "He look like thief in lower cave." He had a sweeping
handlebar mustache that did look piratical. So I took the briefcase with
us to lunch.
I was reminded what real bliss is. It has nothing to do with sex. It
is produced by one's first taste of chocolate ice cream.
It was a warm day in October. With her woolen coat over her arm, long
hair shining in the sun, Estri boarded the taxi ahead of me at exactly
12:55. I gave Mr. Vardish's address. A minor traffic jam delayed us
annoyingly. We approached the critical street corner four minutes late.
And there he stood, clutching an envelope and glaring at his wristwatch.
I told the driver to stop at the corner. He gave me a calculating
look but obeyed. Down came the window. I thrust my own envelope at
Vardish as he poked his to me. He immediately faded into the crowd. The
driver stared in his mirror as I rolled up the window. I said, "Now to
the airport: Pan American terminal."
"Pan Amerik," he repeated and away we went.
Holding the envelope below the seat back, I extracted a dark blue
folder: a very official looking U. S. Passport. Estri's face stared back
at me above Heather's name on the inside page. The first visa page showed
a single slightly smeared stamp with Farsi printing and a Roman date:
011067. I decided the ambiguity between January and October wouldn't
hurt. The whole thing looked every bit authentic as my own passport,
removed from a breast pocket for comparison. I was doubly glad I had
included an extra hundred for the talented Mr. Vardish.
The driver said distinctly, "You make mistake."
I looked up with a scowl to his reflection. "What mistake?"
"Attract attention." He rolled his window down as I realized a
military jeep had drawn alongside us. It contained two soldiers in front
and a man in a business suit in the rear. The front passenger made
sweeping gestures and shouted something to my driver, who rolled his
window back up as the jeep pulled around in front of us. He caught my eye
again in the rear-view mirror. "Say to follow."
"We have to get to the airport."
He shrugged. "Police say follow."
"Where do they want us to go?"
He shrugged again. "Not say."
Estri asked, "What is matter, Hah-ree?"
"We're taking a detour."
"Detour?"
"I think it'll be all right. We have plenty of time."
Shortly jeep and taxi passed in front of the building where Anelda had
made her "buddy" joke yesterday. To my alarm the jeep maintained its
speed. But we turned right at the next corner, proceeded half way down
the block and turned in through a guarded gate into an underground parking
garage. The civilian got out of the jeep, came around the taxi and opened
my door.
He was wearing a thick mustache, a gray suit and a black tie. He
said, "Please come with me, Mr. Stone."
"Am I under arrest?"
"You are commanded to appear before his majesty, Mohammad Reza Shah
Pahlavi."
His English was probably learned in the British Isles. I stared at
him. "My niece will accompany me."
He sneered, "Your niece!" Then he shrugged. "As you wish."
I took her hand. "Come along, Estri. We're going to see the king."
"The taxi will wait," gray suit explained as we got out. He spoke
sharply in Farsi to the driver, who replied subserviently, bowing his
head.
We stepped into the elevator and rode up two or three flights. After
passing a floor in stiff silence I asked, "Isn't it customary to advise
the visitor how to behave?"
He grinned sourly at me. "You're American."
I thought, And you don't much care for us, do you?
The doors parted on a large, comfortably furnished room, empty of
people other than, I noticed as we emerged, two soldiers standing at
attention on either side of the elevator doors with U.S. M2 carbines at
port arms. I wondered if they didn't get tired of that -- then recalled
how light a weapon the M2 is and decided that they probably snapped-to
only when the doors hissed open. That's how I used to stand guard.
"Will you please take a seat," gray suit directed, indicating an
overstuffed couch. He sat facing us across a coffee table, took a
cigarette from a silver case and lit it with a zippo. He blew smoke at
the ceiling.
After awhile I asked, "Will the shah keep us long?"
His eyes glittered. "He's the shah."
"We have a plane to catch."
He glanced at his wristwatch. "Not for another four hours and ten
minutes."
For the first time I was glad Pan Am had rescheduled the three o'clock
flight originally reserved.
Gray suit inhaled deeply and blew the smoke at a lower angle.
"Perhaps I can save you a bit of time. You are perhaps wondering why you
didn't enter the front of the palace."
I'd already guessed but I never pass up the chance to put my foot in
it. "Your idea of a subtle insult?"
He grunted with a momentary grin. "Not at all, Mr. Stone. The shah
wants to honor you but not where the press will notice. The notoriety of
an international incident would serve no one."
I nodded. "I certainly agree with that."
"Good." He leaned back in his seat.
The huge building must have contained many people, but the silence was
complete. I could hear the soft breath in Estri's nostrils as she leaned
on my arm. The ticks of gray suit's finger tapping ash into a nearby tray
seemed loud.
A sudden crack announced the opening of tall double doors directly
across the room from the elevator. Estri jerked. I laid my hand
soothingly on her knee. A man in formal morning clothes appeared in the
door and said something in sepulchral tones.
Gray suit snapped to his feet, snubbing out his cigarette. "The shah
will see you now," he translated.
I took Estri's hand and raised her to her feet beside me. We followed
gray suit, who followed morning clothes, into a room about half the size
of the first, still twice the size of most living rooms. I had an
impression of large gilt-framed paintings on the walls but curiously
little furniture. Spotlighted in the back of the room was a huge mahogany
desk. A man sat behind it, a woman standing beside him. The man was the
shah of Iran, wearing a cream military shirt of some velvety material,
epaulettes on the shoulders, with two medals prominently displayed on the
left chest. The woman was ... either Anelda or her twin.
Gray suit intoned something in Farsi that included my name, then
repeated in English, "Your majesty, Mr. Harrison Everett Stone and his
niece, Estri."
I waited. Man and woman stared at me, Anelda with a twinkle in her
eye. Gray suit had already passed up his chance to tell me what was
expected. I said, "How do you do, your majesty?"
Anelda said something to gray suit, who bowed and backed out of the
room, taking the formally dressed flunky with him. The shah got to his
feet, came around the desk and extended his hand to me. He was wearing
dark brown slacks with a cream stripe down each leg. Of course I took the
hand. He shook mine gently, smiled and said something in Farsi.
Now Anelda translated. "The shah says, 'We take the opportunity to
shake the hand of every man who kills a Russian soldier on the soil of
Iran. We have practiced this since the day in 1946 when the Russians
nearly killed <me>.'"
I extended another verbal foot. "Why would they do that?"
She relayed my question. He retorted fiercely, eyes glaring. She
said for him, "They wanted me to resist the British and American demand
for the Russians to leave Iran. Of course I refused."
I bowed my head slightly and finally told the truth. "That was a far
braver act than mine, your majesty."
He smiled widely when he heard the translation and said through
Anelda, "We must be brave for all our people. We thank you on behalf of
the people of Iran for ridding it of a Russian spy and two Iranian
traitors." He released my hand and added conversationally, "We hope you
have otherwise enjoyed your stay in our country."
"Very much, your majesty." I glanced at Anelda, who winked as she
translated.
"Please visit us again."
With that he turned on his heel and left the room through a side door.
I took a shaky breath of relief and turned to Anelda sourly. "How's your
friend in the Savak prison?"
She advanced upon me and laid her hand on my shoulder. "Would you
have escorted me around Tehran and screwed me till I couldn't stand up if
I told you I was a one-third owner of the Horton?"
"Probably not," I agreed. "What of your father's frozen assets?"
She shrugged. "Most of what I told you is true. He's the shah's
cousin but a little too friendly with Americans. Fortunately I have my
own assets."
"I see."
"Do you, Harry?"
"I see that your political connections are unmatched."
She laughed. "'Connections!' That's rich. I heard that Marilyn
Monroe also had great connections when Kennedy was president."
"Exactly. And since when does the shah need an interpreter? I heard
he speaks English."
"His accent is atrocious. He was educated in Switzerland." She
searched my eyes. "Harry, I believe you're disappointed!"
"I am, a little. I wanted to thank you very much for your help with
Estri. And this morning ... I ..."
She smiled. "Wanted a rematch?"
"Yes."
She cocked her eyes down at the girl hanging on to my arm. "Didn't
Estri take care of you?"
The child smiled at her. I demanded, cross because she was right,
"Why would you expect that?"
"Because you enjoyed her good-night kiss. Because she's been too long
in an Iranian family. The signs are too evident, even if she <is> still
intact." She chuckled. "So far you've given the Savak a fit. They can
find absolutely no evidence that you ever saw her before the two of you
sat down beside me yesterday morning. Did Col. Baradik ask you about it?
"Colonel who?"
"Baradik, the man in the gray suit who diverted your taxi. He didn't
introduce himself? He's assistant commander of the Savak."
I winced. "Don't tell me that!"
"Oh, he's no danger to you, Harry."
"It's dangerous for me to know that about him!"
"Not really. I'm curious. Did he ask?"
"He explained why we didn't come in the front door. That's all he
said. Seems to me he has damn little use for Americans."
She nodded. "You're right about that. He's one of my friendly
enemies."
"Also he doesn't believe Estri is my niece."
"He said that?"
"Implied it."
She smiled slightly. "Neither does anyone else."
I took a long breath. "Anelda --"
"It doesn't matter, Harry. I know you love her and she certainly
loves you! Is that what you traded in the envelopes -- her passport?"
I stared at her. She shook her head, continuing, "I'm sure you have a
plan to get her past U.S. Customs. I hope it works, for her sake as well
as yours."
"Thank you," I said formally.
She grimaced. "I liked your earlier thank-you better!"
"As I liked the poor little Savak victim."
She stepped close enough almost for our bodies to touch. "I'm the
same girl, Harry."
"I'll admit you're dressed about the same. But if you raised your
voice somebody's guards would blow me away."
She tilted her head back. Her face was inches away. "So? Last night
I could've bit down and hurt you nearly as much."
What else could I do? I took her in my arms and kissed her, my mouth
covering hers entirely. She accepted the invitation: her tongue tickled
my palate. Her hands did something to her clothing. Other hands undid my
belt and lowered my britches. Estri? I let it proceed. A warm mouth
closed on my half-hard dick. Definitely Estri! When the mouth left me,
now fully erect, the woman stepped backward against the desk. Her arms
went around my back, lifting her to a seat on the edge. Hands passed
through my legs from behind and guided me into something toothless and
slick. The woman's legs came up around my hips.
She and I sucked each other's tongue the whole time I stood there.
Estri -- who else? -- caressed my balls from behind. Presumably the five
hour old bathroom release improved my endurance. Or maybe it was the
awareness that anyone up to and including the shah of Iran might come
through one of the room's several doors at any moment. Whatever it was,
it inhibited complete expression, as the child psychologists say, until
Anelda signaled by nasal groans and clipping sphincter that she would wait
no longer. Neither did I.
Her legs clamped us together immovably. While it was squirting the
only pressure on my dick was her vaginal sphincters: an exquisite,
soothing compression, perhaps comparable to that of seminal jets upon the
cervix, without suggesting that's-enough-get-the-hell-out-of-here as do
most vaginas. Thinking it over now, I wonder why that conclusion is so
rare. Do women have such completely voluntary control of their sphincters
that they forget to tighten them during orgasm? Or when faking it?
When our lips parted, her eyes were sparkling. She asked with a
smirk, "How's that for a quickie on the shah's desk?"
"God! You really enjoy this kind of thing, don't you?"
"Absolutely. Don't claim <you> don't! The proof is dripping on his
desk at this moment."
"Also a quickie in the shah's woman, right?"
"So?"
"God, I am living dangerously these days!"
She chuckled, then lost her smile. She said almost dreamily, "Cyrus's
Ten Thousand Immortals believed that a man was ready to die when he had
taken a woman and killed a man. You have nothing to fear, Harry. Your
seat is reserved in paradise."
"But Estri's may not be."
"You really do care for her, don't you?"
"I could not care more for a wife." As I said it I realized it was
true, however staggering the implications.
The woman cocked an eyebrow. "She'd make you a good one."
"The question is, would I be good for her?"
"Compared to what otherwise awaits her? I think so, Harry." Which of
course corresponded exactly with my own judgment.
She added, "Much as I hate to say it, you'd better let me down. This
desk is hard."
She unwound legs and arms and I backed away, finally unplugging us.
Estri darted between the adult bodies and swallowed most of the dick just
beginning to soften.
"What the hell --" I began but saw Anelda's knowing grin.
"Just cleaning you up, Harry. She's certainly well trained!"
Too well, I didn't say. I gently disengaged the girl. She
immediately bent, pulled up my shorts and followed with my britches,
rebuckling the belt and even zipping the fly after carefully tucking me
in. Anelda leaned against the desk, grinning at my expression. I looked
past her but saw nothing that she might have removed.
"No panty hose today?" I wondered.
Her grin widened. She actually raised her skirt momentarily to expose
a trimmed bush. "Here they just get in the way."
She came against me and put her arms about my neck, looking into my
eyes from inches away, warm breath in my face. "Harry, you're a sweet
man."
"You're the sweet one, Anelda. And rare. I meet few women with a
man's attitude about sex."
"You think I have one?"
"Unreserved indulgence is not very feminine, at least in my
experience."
"'Unreserved,'" she repeated. "An interesting way to put it. In fact
I'm just a girl who enjoys her work."
"What exactly is that?"
"In Iran a woman is fucked whatever she does. It helps if she can
learn to enjoy it." She smiled, eyes shining. "Excuse my frankness. You
bring out my worst, Harry."
"I prefer to think that what you showed me last night was your best,
and I thank you very much."
She kissed me. I felt the touch of her tongue, probably from habit,
before she withdrew. She said, "This is good-bye, Harry."
I had to sigh and began, "If you're ever in the states --"
She shook her head. "Don't count on it." She bent to Estri, kissed
her check and said something with the sound of Farsi.
Estri said, "I not understand."
The woman asked, "What language <do> you speak?"
The girl smiled and squeezed my hand. "English."
"And you'll get a lot a better at it," the woman admitted, raising up.
She looked at me once more and took a deep breath. "Col. Baradik is
waiting to escort you to your taxi."
With that she spun on her heel and departed by the same door the Shah
had used. I turned Estri's chin up to me and looked into her solemn eyes.
"Thank you, wife."
Her whole face lit. "I love you forever, husband."
<Sunday, October 15, 1972>
We flew from Tehran to Ankara to London and to Chicago, where we faced
the U.S. Customs inspectors. The longest layover, about six hours, was in
London. Thinking about what awaited us in Chicago, I took Estri to the
duty-free shop and bought her a prop: a nearly life-size swaddling baby
doll, complete with milk bottle that seemed actually to contain milk. She
tucked it in her arm in the natural way, then looked up at me quizzically.
"What this for, Hah-ree?"
What to tell her? I finally said, "Practice."
"Practice?"
"Like drill, drill, drill."
She frowned. "But at least one year, more maybe two, before I need a
drill."
The Meshir certainly teach their girls about human reproduction! I
wondered how many live births she had witnessed, how many newborns she had
washed. But this drill had another purpose: camouflage. "I want you to
carry it just like that when we get off the airplane at the next stop."
"I do what you say, husband." But back into the bag it went for now.
I trust she'll take more interest in the real thing, at least when it's
hers!
What Estri finds interesting now is the mechanics of flight. She was
glued to a Heathrow observation window most of the time we waited,
breathlessly watching take-offs and landings. No white-knuckled flyer,
this one! She deposited nose prints liberally at every one of her window
seats.
The Heathrow duty-free shop displayed a book heavy on pictures of
aircraft, including cutaway views of their internal construction, that she
fell upon as a hawk stoops on a dove. Of course it was soon hers. She
turned its pages slowly the whole time we sat at supper, demanding often
that I read the captions to her even though they mostly named the pictured
aircraft. Faced with a whole page of construction notes inset with
intriguing detail drawings, she curled her lip in disgust and declared,
"Must learn read soon! You teach me, Hah-ree?"
"You'll have to go to school for that, Estri."
"School? What is a school?"
And probably a boarding school, I suddenly realized. "Do you really
want to talk about schools or had you rather stay with airplanes?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Stay with airplane now," she decided. "Talk
about school when we get home?"
"When we get home." Or <if>. I refused to complete that thought.
Instead I broached another important prop. "The next plane will take us
to a place called Chicago. If anyone asks you what's your name there, you
say 'Heather.' Can you do that?"
"Yes, husband. Heather."
"Say it again so you won't forget it."
She said it twice more. "I not forget."
"Also, that will be the time to call me 'uncle.' Uncle Harry."
"Uncle Harry," she repeated. For the first time she pronounced my
name correctly.
The flight to Chicago was interminable -- singularly appropriate word!
Nine hours against the jet stream. I felt a thrill of premonitory fear
when the stewardess presented me our U.S. Customs forms. I filled out
both mine and "Heather's." The fine print warned against smuggling
plants, drugs and booze, though not in so many words. It mentioned no
penalty for prepubescent contraband, virgin or otherwise, but I'm sure
there is one.
We finally landed a bit after midnight, local time. Estri had been
sleeping in my lap for hours. We visited the aircraft toilet one last
time at my insistence; I had personal experience to remind me they don't
let you do that on the way to customs. I made sure she had the baby doll
in the crook of her arm as we marched up the ramp.
Most of the passengers were Americans. The line with U.S. passports
was lengthy but moved well. I had delayed us just enough at baggage
pickup so that we would appear about midway in the rush. I hoped the
inspectors were tired and anxious to go home.
When our turn came, I handed in our passports and the already stamped
customs forms. The inspector checked the pictures against our features,
glanced at the forms cursorily and said, "How'd you like Iran?" He
pronounced it eye-ran.
"It was a bit --" Damp, I started to say, already astonished by my
automatic stab at uniqueness, realizing I should've said "Okay." But it
didn't matter. He interrupted me.
"Iran, you say?" His finger checked something on the desktop. "Just
a moment, Mr. Stone."
He turned slightly and crooked a finger behind me. Another agent
sauntered forward, eyebrows raised. At the desk he followed the pointing
finger, then looked up at me. The first guy intoned, "Mr. Harrison Stone
and niece."
Second guy took our passports. He said to me, "Please slide your bags
behind the desk and come with me, both of you, if you don't mind."
I thought briefly of grabbing Estri and running like hell. <Very>
briefly. Ah, well! I had memorized my lawyer's telephone number, in case
they stripped me before throwing me in the clink. I'd just have to play
out the hand, but god, I hated what it would do to Estri!
A slim chance remained that a good lawyer and enough money might get
Estri released into my sister's custody while I was out on bail. I'd
convinced myself of that while planning what to do when this worst
happened. So now that it had, I shoved the bags out of sight as directed,
took a firm grip on Estri's hand and followed the man like a good boy.
Something nagged at me until I realized what it was. "Mr. Stone <and
niece>." My niece was identified on both forms as being in my party but
first guy had hardly glanced at them. So how'd he know? Had the paper
merchant turned me in?
Second guy led us into a small room, somebody's office, I saw, and
indicated a rumpled vinyl couch. "Have a seat. Won't keep you long." He
picked up the phone and dialed a couple of numbers.
Won't keep us long! Was he being facetiously sarcastic? I listened
intently, hoping to hear both ends of the conversation. And I did. Some
man said tinnily, "Customs Security, Jarvis speaking." My man responded,
"This is Tilden. Stone is in my office." To which the distant Jarvis
replied, "Coming."
Tilden hung up the phone and turned to me. "He'll be here in just a
sec. I am Henry Tilden. How are you, Mr. Stone."
No more uniqueness. "A bit tired. It was a long flight."
"From ... London?"
"The last leg." I forced a smile. "Heather got a nap, but I can't
sleep on planes."
"Know what you mean. I was on an Electra red eye from D.C. last
month. Every time I nodded off, the vibration would change."
I agreed that the turboprop Electra ought to be called the
shake-a-prop. He said he liked that characterization. I was wondering if
I was ahead in the game when another uniformed customs agent walked in
without bothering to knock, heavy older guy with gray temples. He came
straight to me and stuck out his hand.
His hand? I scrambled to my feet and took it. He shook it vigorously
while cracking my knuckles. "Mr. Harrison Stone, I am chief of security
here. When I retired, I was Col. Ellison Jarvis of the Army of the United
States. I've had time to look it up since State notified us. You were in
my chain of command in 'Nam. I wanted to shake the hand of a real
soldier, a man who actually nailed one of those Russian bastards."
"Thank you, sir," I said firmly, concealing my overwhelming relief,
letting him shake. Apparently I didn't conceal it completely.
"Surprised I heard about it, are you? I hate to say it, but this is
all the recognition you're going to get, Stone. Those pussies at State --
excuse me, Miss Heather -- are afraid anything more would create an
'international incident.'" His contempt came through strong. "But I want
you to know that a whole lot of people appreciate what you did. You're
holding an ex-colonel's hand, but it represents hands all the way up to
the chief of staff -- and maybe beyond."
"Thank you, sir," I repeated, adding, "And thank them."
"I will. Welcome home, Stone!"
He released me, backed up two steps, came to attention and executed a
formal salute, apparently without expecting a response. Then he did a
crisp toe-to-heel about-face and marched out of the office.
I looked at Tilden. He looked at me. I said, "May we go now?"
"Of course." He held the door and guided us back to our bags. When
we reached them, he handed me our passports and grinned. "You may need
these again."
I nodded to him, hoisted our bags and led Estri -- I mean Heather --
through the double doors toward the last plane to our new life.
--
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