At the Summit Ch. 12

At the Summit - Part Twelve

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by Richard Williams Copyright 2005, All rights reserved

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Contributed by Richard Williams for the enjoyment of Literotica's readers. This fictional story is copyrighted and may only be used for your personal pleasure. It may not be sold, distributed, or posted on another website without the author's permission.

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AT THE SUMMIT

by Prof. Richard W.

(formerly of the University of ____________)

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Part 12 - "On The Way" LATE IN 1997

Sophia and I were on our way down in the long drop ride of an elevator from her attorney's office. We were making no stops, and so she took advantage of the temporary privacy to move closer to me and whisper a reminder of her eagerness to learn more of my friend Dean's story. The paperwork to create a foundation to back my research into the paranormal had taken some convoluted twists, and it had been quite a while since I had last talked with my lover and advisor about the ex-agent's experiences in Denver.

Silently, I nodded my agreement with her.

"Let's head over to the Wynkoop and try the seasonal," I suggested. "It's noisy enough there, that we can talk." We had not been to the brewpub in a while, and Sophia accepted readily. Since we went directly from the lawyer's office, we were there before the rush, and soon we were snug in a booth. I resumed the story after the beer appeared.

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BEFORE THE 1997 SUMMIT

Dean was on an airplane headed to Denver once again. This time, he told himself, the preparations had been made, and it was time for the big show-- the Summit Conference. He found himself wondering what all the preparations had been.

Once again, Dean mentally divided up what he knew into 3x5 cards. Then, he divided up what he knew he did not know on additional mental cards. Once again, he would be meeting Michelle. They were both just to be back up for the professional security people, trolling around the edges of the event, looking for problems. Of course, the FBI guys had told his boss that if anything did turn up that way, that Dean could just let them know, and they would step in.

In other words, Dean told himself, they were just tolerating him and his agency. Humor us, he thought, and keep us out of the picture. Grade crossing patrols could handle what he was doing.

Michelle, too, was officially expected to work on a tangential security project supporting the Summit. The French government had lots of important security people there, and they were working with the important security people from the U.S. In turn, they were working with the important security people from Denver.

On his mental index cards, Dean reviewed his resource people for this assignment. He would be working with the unimportant people: Val and Deborah at the B&B might be able to help; Tony, the young man who I had introduced Dean to and his girlfriend from the park, maybe. I was not available then. He could count on Michelle, but what if she was ordered elsewhere? He was heading into unknown problems, without much help.

He knew that Michelle and he would be assigned to be in the same places as each other twice: on the First Ladies' trip into the Rockies on the Ski Train, and on the First Ladies' breakfast at the Oxford Hotel. This had sounded sooo social that certain other government agencies had turned up their noses at the assignments, booking junior staff if they had to, or passing it up altogether if they could get away with it.

He also knew from an unlikely source that there might be more to these media events than it seemed. Rose, from Accounting, had tipped him to the fact that there was an extra car being added to the train that would be set up for a meeting. And during the First Ladies' breakfast, there was an extra meeting room booked upstairs in the Oxford. Rose knew that because she had been asked to clear these expenses. And she told Dean that because, well, perhaps because her clit was still tingling from the joy of capturing the retired agent's... attention. No, Dean corrected himself, Rose would not have done that. She had told him because she wanted him to know what was going on, she wanted him to watch what he got into. Uh oh, Dean mused, she cares about me.

His wife, on the other hand, had dismissed him during his return home with little curiosity. She had other interests. He mentally flipped that card over.

What about the Lepenistes? He had figured out that they were up to more than trying to stop Michelle from setting up a link with his agency against their penetration of her bureau. He knew pieces of their activities, and his chance encounter with the entranced Maria had opened his eyes to more of what they were doing out in California. None of that fit together, though. Too many cards lay face down on the imaginary table.

Dean let his mind float away from the immediate problem. His seat mates were two bubbly young Asian women, students on their way to get established for university classes in Denver. They had barely noticed him, being caught up in their own conversation-- and giggles. They reminded him of an incident years ago, and as he was dead-ended with the mental files, he continued free-associating, finding that to be relaxing. What were their names? The names in his recollection, not the names of the two students beside him; he fished around for them.

Atka. Atka! That was the name of the one with the bright imagination. She was the plainer of the two, physically, but he had quickly spotted her as the sharper of the pair of Mongolian students he had met in Moscow. He could not think of her friend's name, although he could visualize her cute smile and curvy figure.... and the rosy spread of the blush from her cheeks. Atka's friend was used to being the center of attention without much effort.

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MOSCOW IN THE EARLY 1980's

They were in the library when he met them together. He had seen Atka's friend before, as she worked there, and had enjoyed chatting with her. It was clear that she was used to having men want to talk with her, she just expected that. She was studying foreign languages at the university, and he was easily able to rationalize that his bosses would approve of him getting acquainted with her. Of course, he knew that it was a rationalization, but, on the other hand, in his world, any contact might pay off in the future.

That night, Atka had stopped by to chat. Her friend had introduced her to Dean. He had barely noticed her standing there at first, poised, but not obviously attractive the way that the woman behind the counter was. Then Dean noticed Atka's eyes. Intense, flashing almost, they drew his attention from where it had rested on her friend's shapely rear.

"I didn't want to study, so I came down here!" she candidly answered when Dean asked whether she was working in the library also. It turned out that the two Mongolians were roommates, and that Atka did work in the library, too. This was not her shift, though, just a little break from her demanding Chemistry studies.

He could feel that the pair were intrigued by him, and he found that they were amused by his struggles with Russian. Atka suggested that if he found Russian difficult, he should try Mongolian! Her spirit appealed to Dean, and as he would be back to the library many times in his current "diplomatic" assignment, it seemed like a real opportunity to expand his knowledge. "Who knows? - Chto znaet?" as the Russians would say, he told himself, he might be able to use a snatch of that language in some future work. He turned so that he would face the two women head on.

"That seems like an opportunity for you two and for me, too. Your English is better than most Americans', but everyone could use some touch-ups. But I don't know how you could teach me much Mongolian. Do you have a suggestion?" He paced the plain, honest words with their breathing, thankful that his experience at the School for Sexual Expression allowed him to calmly watch their breasts rise and fall without getting an instant hard-on. In turn, they could feel comfortable with him, breathing subconsciously with him, relaxed even. Their faces flushed with warm excitement, although, of course, they were not thinking consciously of sex, but of education. Hopefully, according to Dean, their subconscious was taking their natural needs and enhancing his message.

"Perhaps one of you has a good idea... something fun" he began slowly, and enjoyed the sudden, darting sideways glances as each checked to see what the other was up to. Of course, each saw that on the surface the other was drifting into a pleasing state of euphoria, and that was so reassuring to their thoughts. Dean saw them relax further. In their subconscious minds, though, ancient images took focus, rivalries, needs, awareness that this powerful, confident male would naturally have his choice of women, and beneath that understanding, the urge each had to validate her own femininity, to be chosen as the dominant female. Dean watched as the conversation floated forward, and felt for the undercurrents carrying them all along.

Atka's tongue darted over her lips as she rose to the challenge with words, as her friend drifted helplessly, wordlessly-- used to having her beauty as her trump card.

"Why don't we set up a regular meeting in our apartment? We'll both be there, so it will be permissible. We can teach you many things."

"Yes! That's a wonderful idea." Her friend came alive to the idea, turning slightly and presenting her breasts to Dean in a way that brought the bright stripes of a thoroughly un-Communist bra to show against her ordinary student's white blouse. He felt a sense of relief that she had not done that before when he was inducing their interest, as it played hell with his concentration on developing the growing connection between them.

And so, having suggested the process which would bring them together, Atka ripped a corner off of a library bulletin page and wrote out the information for Dean. Just like a Russian, she wrote it in script that was beautiful but hard for him to read. He had to ask her to print out the Cyrillic characters, and they were interrupted by a couple of other library users who came to ask questions. Still, it was pleasing to note that she did not lose interest or forget her task. The idea had become her own, just as thoughts of one-upping her had become her friends' own plan. He left the library with a light step and a rendezvous in his pocket.

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BEFORE THE 1997 SUMMIT CONFERENCE

Dean stirred in his airplane seat, and found himself back in the present. The two Asian women were quietly working together on a crossword puzzle. The plane droned on, the sound of muffled conversations reaching him without communicating any sense. One of the students triumphantly pounced on the puzzle sheet, and then both of them laughed with relief at a solution. Their shared enthusiasm, especially the sight of them puzzling over the crosswords, led Dean back to his pleasant recollections.

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MOSCOW IN THE EARLY 1980's

Dean's lesson began so innocently, but the undercurrents between the two Mongolian friends remained. Their apartment was small, and so every movement became a kind of dance with one another. Atka's friend had to sit on the bed, because there were only two chairs. Every so often, she stretched back, making some small comment about it being uncomfortable. Both Dean and Atka offered her their places, but she heroically said that she could get by. Stretching back, of course, showed off her figure in an artistic way. Dean caught a glimpse of Atka frowning at her roommate.

When Dean's afternoon came for the first English lesson, he brought a special exercise. This would help him to determine what their needs were, he explained. It was a set of crossword puzzles that the two students could work together. He would just observe and see how they worked out the English conversation needed to complete their assignment.

It was outstanding, Dean recollected, how the crossword puzzles had brought them together. He had not been sure how it would work out-- the printed cards were stamped on the back with the intricate holographic logo of the School for Social Expression. He had never used the cards before, just had heard a presentation on them in the school. Atka's friend had picked one up and looked at it idly, flipping it back and forth to see the pattern changes. Dean had been pleased to note that she had begun to lose her train of thought as she tried to make sense of the almost hypnotic intertwining. He wondered if she had taken in enough of the subtle messages in the design. The more task-oriented Atka just noted that the backs of the cards were decorative, and turned them all face up to work on them.

Drawing her friend's attention back to the crosswords, Atka led her through the exercise. Their fluency together with English was remarkable, Dean told himself. He had not falsely complimented them the other evening at the library. His remaining concern about the effectiveness faded as the two linked word after word, concept after concept. Words like "lace" and "seduction" occasionally intertwined with seemingly ordinary fillers like "notice" and "connect." They chattered busily in English and Mongolian. "Daydream" crossed "desire" and "need" intersected with "myself." Their speech began to take on a dreamy quality as they absorbed the concepts through their interaction. Then "wanton" penetrated through the center of "now." Their conversation was stilled. Dean wanted to hold his breath, but instead he continued to pace the gentle movement of their chests. What was about to happen? Had they seen through it?

Atka paused, and picked up the cards, looking at their face sides intently. He could see the wheels going in her head-- damn, he thought, she's figured it out! For a moment he had to grip the chair to keep from fleeing the room. And then she began arranging and rearranging the cards.

"There is a pattern in these," Atka murmured to her friend. After a few moments of shuffling the cards, she began laying them down on the table. Suddenly the hidden beauty of the cards came clear to Dean, and undoubtedly it was clear to Atka as an artistic feature in her conscious mind, and as a guide in her subconscious.

"Look, the words flow from one card to another to form a geometric pattern." Dean glanced and then quickly looked away. It was the pattern of the School for Sexual Expressions logo, representing itself as the hypnotic intertwining of the bland School for Social Expression cover name. Atka traced the patterns endlessly with her fingers, moving ever slower, until finally her hand hung motionless in the air. Her friend nodded as she watched, her eyes half-glazed over.

Dean touched Atka's right hand gently, pushing it to rise toward her face.

"Your eyes are closing because you are so sleepy," he suggested. When her hand touched her eye, she blinked and went out like a light.

Her friend had reached a certain point, but seemed to go no further. Dean scrambled mentally, and realized that she was not understanding enough of the English words to follow the intertwining concepts.

"You thought the back side of the cards was beautiful... now that Atka is asleep, you can look at them again.... she wanted to stop you, but now you can do it..." Dean intoned, and Atka's friend recalled her interrupted look at the card. Atka had kept her from doing what felt like real fun. Smiling faintly, and picking one up, she twitched it back and forth in the light, slowly and more slowly.

"The more slowly you move, the better it gets..." Dean suggested, and her hands moved in smaller and smaller measures, until she stopped all together.

"If you look more closely at the card, look at the center of the symbol, you will find that you can pause and look into the beautiful dreams that are coming now." He led her deeper into her trance, while noticing that this was a different effect than Atka's showed. The symbol's sexual suggestions were being deeply understood now, as the attractive young student's nipples rose beneath her sweater. He watched her face flush with excitement, and her eyes dilate. She seemed unaware of her body's preparations. A wave of warmth drew him toward her, but he steadied himself and went on.

Calm in their trances, they answered the standard School survey questions about their sexual experience and preparedness. Reflecting their society, they had little of either. Both were virgins.

The latter discovery gave Dean a start. He was not often asked to weigh the pros and cons of being a woman's first. The plus side of the situation is that he could talk with each of them about it in an honest manner. Atka's friend gave a high priority to being a virgin when she married, while Atka expressed herself ambivalently on the subject.

As their allotted time was coming to an end, Dean had to close their trances, shortening the process for the next time with their own trance words. He left them with the thought that through the week each should think about how they would have sex with him, and think further as to how they felt about potentially losing their maiden status.

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LATE IN 1997

We were interrupted by the waiter. I felt Sophia's hand on my knee, caressing me. Her eyes sparkled, and I could see by the smile on her face that it was going to be worth letting the food get cold in order to bring this tale to a climax.

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MOSCOW IN THE EARLY 1980's

When Dean returned for the next session, he climbed the creaking stairs in their poorly-maintained apartment building two or three at a time. He had put himself in the position of expecting something to happen, but not being sure what. He found that he was eager as a schoolboy.

Their apartment was spic and span when he entered. Fresh flowers had been placed in a bowl on the kitchen/dining room table. Books were neatly aligned on the shelves. Atka and her friend were just as scrubbed, and each was dressed in a simple white robe. Their figures showed nicely as they moved in the material.

"Atka did it..." giggled her friend when Dean asked who had been housekeeping. "She was a regular dust storm this past week."

"No! SHE did it!" Atka pointed emphaticly at her roommate. "She was everywhere with the dust rag."

Dean let them know how pleasing it was, whoever had done it, and started to say something else. He was interrupted.

"Would you bring out the crossword puzzle cards for us?" Atka's friend asked for it coyly. "They are such a pleasure."

"Nooo...., Dean, we have an idea!" Atka interrupted. The two young friends argued back and forth in Mongolian for a minute, then began giggling hopelessly from embarrassment, peeking at Dean. Of course, he could not understand what was so titillating. He could see that Atka was getting the upper hand in the discussion, and he could tell by the tone that it was the sequel to a conversation that had gone on before.

Finally, the two turned to look at him. For a moment, Dean felt like he was the hunted rather than the hunter.

"Hchoeur hchoochen adoo oonazh yavna." Atka said the words with a sensuous smile that looked much more mature than he had seen from her before. Her friend grinned as she nodded agreement.

"Hchoeur..." was what it sounded like. Of course, the Mongolian words, written in the Cyrillic alphabet, were a bit difficult for Dean to note down later. At the time, he was rather preoccupied, as the two advanced toward him, dark eyes flashing.