The Blackfire Protocol by Clifford Beck - HTML preview

Chapter 40

Having left campus for the last time, Frank walked into his house and, sitting on the couch, let out a deep sigh of resignation. It was over. His days of teaching were now behind him. Taking out the envelope, he removed the stacks of money, and counting them out determined that they had given him twenty thousand dollars. Somewhere within the bills was a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it with the word ‘more’ underlined beneath it.

“Huh,” he muttered to himself. “That’s convenient.”

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He assumed that should he require more ‘funding’ he could simply call and ask for it.

“Almost like ordering a pizza.”

Just then his stomach began growling, and realizing he had not eaten for most of the day, called the nearest pizza place and ordered delivery. Twenty minutes later, he heard a knock on the door. He thought it was too soon for the pizza, but upon opening the door, was shocked to see Betsy standing in the hallway.

“Holy shit,” he said. “Just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

Her eyes still reflected the passion he had felt a bit threatened by during their first encounter, but having put on a few years, he no longer felt intimidated by her.

“Well,” she said. “You going to let a girl in?” Frank suddenly snapped back into the moment and, opening the door a bit wider, stepped back as she walked in. Removing her knee-length coat, she revealed that she was still the stunning woman he met back in undergraduate school. “Is that camel hair?” he asked.

Her response was casual yet immediate. “Yeah, I couldn’t afford Italian Cashmere, so I settled on this.”

Entering the house, he noticed not only the way she walked, but what she was wearing. Removing her coat, Betsy revealed a mid-thigh leather skirt and a white lace-edged top with loose wrist-length sleeves. This was topped off with red high heels covering sheer nylons that, he guessed, went all the way up. He remembered her from college as being strikingly beautiful, but what walked into his home was a work

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of art. He made one more quick observation: there was no wedding ring.

She sat on his couch with perfect posture and, crossing her legs, began the conversation. “So,” she said. “I heard you’re going into politics. What happened? Did you get tired of teaching?” He had left the campus only an hour ago and had not yet had the chance to absorb the journey that lay ahead of him.

“Let me guess,” he replied. “You’re still in journalism.”

Betsy leaned back into the couch and, with a hint of attitude, answered by telling him about her current employer.

“Well,” she answered. “After I graduated, I got a job with the Washington Post. It was entry-level, but it paid the bills. Now, I’ve gone up a few notches, and I work some pretty cool stories. Of course, I can’t tell you anything about them, especially my sources. But let’s talk about you.”

Frank had not even begun his campaign and already knew the value of secrecy and chose to avoid most of what his plans were.

“A few years of teaching, and you just suddenly decide to drop all of it for politics,” she continued. “Why would you do that? Nice comfy career in academia, and one day just decide, 'Hey, fuck all of it, I’m going into politics’. What’s going on, Frank?” He couldn’t help but think that Betsy was looking for a story, but Frank was forced to stonewall her, knowing the consequences of such a disclosure. “I don’t think there’s much of a story going on here,” he replied.

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He tried to direct the conversation elsewhere, and for a while it seemed to work.

“So,” he said. “I see you’re not married. I have to ask. How could a woman as beautiful as you not be married?”

Adjusting her skirt, Betsy changed position slightly, indicating a degree of discomfort. “Well,” she replied. “I tried that. Lasted a whole six months. Marriage just isn’t for me. You must remember the way things were in college, right? Well, that’s the way I like my life—simple, uncomplicated. Marriage, relationships—that's not my style.”

He remembered every moment. The passion he had experienced with her had been something he would remember on his deathbed, and he didn’t find it odd at all to see her face flush as her forehead beaded up with sweat.

“You haven’t changed much, have you?” he asked. During the conversation, Frank remained standing as Betsy sat, becoming increasingly uncomfortable with rising arousal. As much as she tried to put up a fight, she was losing badly. She remembered too, and trying to maintain a sense of style, she stood up and, walking up to him, made an obvious advance that he could not resist. In short, she lowered a hand and gently wrapped it around his already firm member. With the other hand around the back of his neck, she kissed him deeply on the mouth, providing him with an answer.

“Not a bit,” she replied.

As far as Frank was concerned, the next few hours were something of a blur, but the results were similar to what they had both experienced so many years

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ago. Between sweat-soaked bedsheets, Betsy lay on her side with an arm around his chest while he questioned his ability to walk. Sitting up, Frank swung his legs over the side of the bed while discovering how many muscles were cramping up. “Jesus Christ,” he said. “I don’t remember it being quite this painful.”

A smile came over Betsy’s face as she sat up and, with the sheets pulled away, pressed her breasts into his back while wrapping her arms around him and kissing him on the shoulder.

“You’re just out of shape,” she said. “All you need to do is practice more, and I help with that.” He entertained the idea of again spending time with her, but she was on her way to becoming a top journalist with the post, and he couldn’t help feeling a bit leery about what he should and shouldn’t say to her. But a voice rose up from somewhere inside him saying, 'Hey, what the fuck’, and heeding the call, agreed they would spend time together when time allowed. He would start campaigning soon anyway, so there wouldn’t be a lot of opportunity for ‘fun and games’.

As their bodies recovered, Betsy began asking the kind of questions that anyone else would ask. “I guess I should have asked before we hit the sheets,” she said. “But did you ever get married? You know, any kids?”

There had never been a point in Frank’s life where he had considered a family. His world was complicated enough without the added chaos of a wife and children, and having children was an expense he could afford.

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“No,” he replied. “I never really thought about it, to be honest.”

Turning herself around, Betsy put her feet on the floor and, walking around the foot of the bed, reached down and picked up her panties. The lights were still on, giving him a chance to absorb Betsy’s naked image, something he had not had the chance to do when the clothes began flying off. As she started dressing, he noted her well-toned musculature and slender legs. Her breasts were well-supported and stood up and slightly out, with the sweat of their amorous activity running in thin ribbons down between them. In college, she had once bragged of being a size five. Clearly, this had not changed, as she bore the shape of an hourglass. Somehow, her skin lacked even the slightest blemish and appeared too perfect. He blindly reached out and, with the back of his fingers, gently stroked the nipple of the breast closest to him. It was slightly oblong and soft. Betsy’s response was purely physiological, as her skin jumped up into goose flesh and the fine hair on her arms stood up. She exhaled deeply as her head tipped back, but this was interrupted as the real world called out for attention and, grabbing his hand, promised they would continue another time. “Sooner rather than later, I hope,” he said. Her response was strong as she bent down towards him and kissed him hard on the mouth. “We’ll see,” she said. “I’m a busy girl these days.” As she finished dressing, Frank sat, continuing to admire every curve of her body. He watched intently as she slid her nylons on over her taut, smooth legs. Every inch of her had been shaved to the smoothness of a well-oiled pane of glass. Quickly dressing in a

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bath towel, he led her to the front door, and opening it felt her hand slip beneath it, gripping him one last time as she kissed him again.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll have more time to play.”

He gazed hypnotically as Betsy walked down the stairs and, closing the door, felt her energy linger as she disappeared into the streets of DC. If he were a man given to the idea of marriage, he would have fallen to bended knee before her, wanting her to himself. But neither of them were prone to such an idea; even a serious relationship was not in the cards. As much as he hoped to see her again, he knew it would likely not be soon and anticipated her visits would be spontaneous. They would pleasure each other, say their goodbyes, and hope for a return to Frank’s bedroom sometime in the future. But with the reality of her career and his impending political journey, both of them seemed to feel the world standing in their way of anything real. Their relationship, if one could call it that, would never progress beyond what already existed. When time and opportunity allowed, they would be nothing more than bedmates—sex without substance, intimacy without feeling.