David E Balaam - Nothing Is Sacrosanct

Marcus nodded in the affirmative. “OK, but I have one condition.”

“If it is in my power to approve,” Dyke answered, intrigued.

“I don't want any payment for anything I do for you. I am not an employee. Do you understand?”

The man at the door frowned. It didn't make sense to him that someone would work for free.

“If that's what you want to keep your conscience clear, then yes, I can arrange that. Anything else?”

“No,” Marcus answered, wearily, hanging his head. Wanting just to lie down and sleep for a week.

Dyke smiled gently. “Thank you, Mr Hartmann.”

Marcus looked up and sighed. He stared momentarily at his new boss and nodded his appreciation. At the same time Dyke shook his head indicating his man to 'stand-down'. “Good. One last thing. You will need a code-name.” Dyke looked as if was thinking. “A mythological beast. Strong in stamina. Loyal to his friends. Defender of his territory. Unicorn,” Dyke smiled, “after all, you do have something in common - you don't exist either, do you, Marcus?”

Marcus shook his head, bemused at the analogy. “Very amusing. What else?”

Dyke opened his attaché case once more and took out a Manila A4 envelope. “This contains some documents you haven't had up to now; birth certificate, passport etc. plus instructions of when and where to report to for training.”

“You were very sure of yourself,” Marcus said, fingering the envelope,

Dyke said nothing. He picked up his case and retrieved his hat and gloves from Smith.

“We will meet again after your training, Mr Hartmann. Good luck.”

The two men left without any further dialogue, leaving Marcus sitting at the table, head on folded arms, weeping uncontrollably.

1968

Marcus's new six-bedroom house in Shirley Heights, an up-market area near Croydon, was a sign of his early success in the City. The house was sparsely decorated, to begin with: scattered bean-bags for chairs, and a Habitat glass dining table with aluminium bar stools plus the latest in 1960's modern technology - a Hi-Fi Unit. The house, however, was lacking a woman's touch until Barbara arrived, although Marcus was not interested in material things, at least not back then. They lived in peaceful bliss, each living their own life and respecting each other's privacy - well, that was the plan.

Although each had their own bedroom, Barbara was restless and continually drawn to Marcus. One night, around six months after moving in she slipped into Marcus's bed, naked, and cuddled up behind him. He turned to face her. “What are you doing, Barbara?” he asked, startled by her presence.

“Seducing you,” she whispered, unbuttoning his pyjama top. She then pulled on the pyjama trouser cord and searched for his cock. Pushing the bedspread back, she removed the pyjama bottoms and sat astride her prize. “Barbara, please . . . don't . . . this is not right,” he said, his face showing signs of fear.

Barbara replied by gently rocking on his soft cock. “Take off your pyjama top. I always sleep naked. You should know that by now,” she teased. Marcus held her by the shoulders and looked at her forlornly. “Barbara, I am sorry. I can't do this.” And he pushed her off onto the other side of the king-size bed. They laid side by side, silent for a while. Barbara was not sure what was wrong; she had never thought of Marcus as being queer, and she felt bad at having embarrassed him. To Marcus it was the moment he knew could come, would come, one day, but for now he knew he was not strong enough to handle it.

“Tell me, Marcus, what happened to you? I deserve to know. You need to talk it out.” She said with concern and kindness, caressing his arm, seeing he was being tortured by his homosexuality. Marcus rolled over to face her and cupped his hand to her cheek. “You are right, of course, as always,” and smiled at her gorgeous face. He told her everything that night, including her father's part in spiriting him out of Austria. She listened with tears flowing down her cheeks, and when he had finished she hugged him so tightly she never wanted to let him go. They fell asleep entwined in a lover’s knot, each wanting what should not be possible, as she now knew her earlier assumption was further from the truth than even she could have imagined.

In the morning they stirred slowly, Barbara caressing his face, kissing him gently. Marcus responded with firmer kisses, his hands searching out her warm flesh.

She eased herself on top of him and continued to rock rhythmically as she had done earlier that night. Marcus responded more than he had ever done, and swayed in time to her rhythm, but was failing to become completely erect again.

Noticing his awkwardness she took hold of Marcus and slowly rubbed up and down the foreskin with one hand whilst teasing one of his nipples with her free hand. “How come you know so much about sex, young lady?” Marcus asked with interest - enjoying her warm flesh on his.

“Have you forgotten I spent my formative years at Chaucer's boarding school for girls, and it's 'love making,' not sex,” she said, with some smugness in her voice. The foreplay had the desired effect and she carefully took his full and underused cock and slipped it into herself. “Have you never been with a woman since . . . well, back then,” she asked sympathetically. He shook his head, although curiously not unashamed to be a virgin at twenty-six. Perhaps he was waiting for the right woman after all, and now she was here to lead him into the Garden of Eden.

“Then allow me.” Barbara took his hands and placed one on each of her breasts, and squeezed them so he knew what to do. “Circle my nipples with your thumbs, like this,” she said, sucking on her forefinger, leaning into his smooth hairless body and touching his left nipple in a circular motion. Marcus stiffened and looked as if he was about to suffer a cardiac arrest, but the resulting stimulation was, in fact, his first and true experience in ejaculation.

During a brief respite, Marcus asked Barbara a leading question which was bothering him. “If you were at an all-girls school how come you learnt so much about . . . sex . . . sorry, lovemaking?” he asked in all innocence.

Barbara could not suppress her laugh. “Sorry, Marcus. You really are an innocent, aren't you?” And kissed him on the lips. “Well, to answer your question, I had a very good teacher, not just in Music and French, but in lovemaking . . . Ms Simone was . . . is . . . thirty-something, five foot six with short auburn bobbed hair, slim waist, and perfect breasts, and oh, yes, and a wonderful tattoo of a butterfly on her right buttock.” And she smiled broadly at the memory.

Marcus was intrigued and slightly aroused by Barbara's description of her teacher. “Well,” Marcus said, “don't stop there.”

“I can see you are interested,” Barbara said, reaching down between his legs. “OK, well, Ms Simone asked me back to her rooms one winter's evening, I was sixteen and seven months, and yes, a virgin. She was dressed in a beautiful full-length orange satin robe. We sat on the floor in front of a small log fire and drank Martini's, which I had never had before but thought they were so exotic. Then, casually, she asked, “Have you ever made love, Barbara?” I don't know why, but I was not shocked at all. I shook my head and said “No.” She smiled, and then asked, “to a man or woman?” Then I did laugh. “No . . . not even a woman,” but added, “why, have you?”

She smiled and indicated for me to sit next to her, with our backs against the sofa. “Yes,” she whispered, “and it is the most beautiful single thing you can ever imagine. I am sure you will sleep with a man eventually, and perhaps marry, but I want you . . . and maybe some others . . . to experience the alternative. I can show you something that is both beautiful and touching as well as erotic and fulfilling. Do you know what free will is, Barbara?”