Love to Die For 5/27 The Color of Moonlight

Twin spirits, born without moral compass, acute shortage in the Remorse Department, together they reached peaks and depths of a rare ecstasy. First time out she wore a yellow silk Grecian-look mini-dress that showed off her tanned shoulders and tanned legs right up to the curve of her cheeks. He had borrowed Willymac’s red Mustang coupe to take her to a drinks party. Those were the days of taking people out, rather than slipping them a tablet and saying ‘Shall we?’

Holly, ahead of her time, had other ideas. ‘Why,’ she asked, ‘are we going to this party?’ Her voice had a permanent giggle.

‘Graham hinted you might like to go out with me. I invited you. You said yes.’

‘Sarky. I said yes to a drink, not a party.’

Ho’s Bar, downtown hangout for the base’s young officers, their wives, girlfriends, other people’s wives, girlfriends, local planters and theirs. Aside from a ginger-haired man in a red check shirt pulling faces at himself in the bottle-lined mirror, and Ho himself, inscrutably Chinese, the place was empty: everybody at the party, celebrating something somewhere some time ago.

Holly downed a Screwdriver. Audrey Hepburn face, body like Angelina Jolie, Harry had lusted for her since she arrived on base, launching herself on a series of boyfriends, each lasting about three weeks.

‘Why did you ask me out?’

‘I said. Graham…’

Brown eyes deep as Loch Ness with a twinkle on the surface. She got off the bar stool, moved it right next to his, climbed on again. He tried not to look down the yellow dress. Her breast touched his arm. Geronimo, he thought. It was, kind of, firm. Not soft. (He hadn’t yet bumped into silicone.) Bouncy. And, under the thin silk, bra-less.

Did she know what she was doing? It would be years before he understood they always know what they are doing. Should he ignore it? Or lean into it? Ha! Pressure. He pressed back, gently, trying to disguise the movement with a shift of his hand – towards the drink. Holly giggled. ‘Men. All the same. Give it to them on a plate and they don’t know what to do. Take it away and they start to beg.’

‘Am I begging?’

‘Have I taken it away?’

They both burst out laughing. ‘You’re engaged, aren’t you?’ she said.

‘Everybody knows that.’

‘But you went to bed with Lisa in Singapore.’

‘I did not go to bed with Lisa.’

She rolled those beautiful long-lashed eyes. ‘OK, smartass. You did not go to bed. You had sex. Standing up. On the dance-floor. At the Barbarella. With Lisa. OK?’


‘…and next day in broad daylight in the pool at the Swiss Club…’


‘…amid crowds of lunching Swiss.’

‘Not everybody knows that.’

She laughed. ‘The Swiss know. Lisa knows.’

‘Well she would, wouldn’t she. Anyway, the pool had sloping sides and a handrail all round. Perfect positioning. Couldn’t help it really. And nobody stopped us. Polite, the Swiss, aren’t they. Just carried on eating. I didn’t know you knew Lisa.’

‘I don’t. She told Willymac. She told him you made her come. A lot.’

He felt his face go red and went harder below.

‘Sounds like everybody does know that.’

‘Make me come, Harry.’

‘Thanks, Ho,’ Harry called over his shoulder leaving his glass of Tiger in a puddle of cold sweat as they ran for the car. He felt just a little more excited than the last time he was being shot at. As he drove she put her hand between his legs. His went between hers when he wasn’t shifting gear. She wore nothing underneath. Her skin felt hot, and smooth, like no other skin he’d ever touched. And no hair.

‘Are your parents at the party?’ Her Dad was something in Commissary and lived in a big house outside the base.

‘I don’t want to go home.’

‘My room? The orderlies will see you.’

‘They’ve seen enough of me already, what with Graham and Willymac. It’s a lovely night. Let’s park.’

A ripe Malaysian moon shone over the Training Area. Harry’s pants were already down to his knees. He fought them off and, stiff as a poker, clambered over the gear shift, knelt between Holly’s legs and pulled her onto him by the hips. Ah, that feeling, the moment of entry. As he thrust into her tight wet heat she lifted her breasts out of the yellow dress, fondling them. Wow. First time with anyone who so openly touched herself.

Excitement surged through him and he rammed harder and faster. Pushing his hands down on the sides of the seat he lifted himself, changing the angle inside to rub against the pleasure places. A deep moan rose from the depths of her belly, up through her chest, into her throat and out of her mouth. Her hips jerked like crazy and he felt the contractions inside. That made him come at the same time.

They sat smoking Rothmans, gazing at the moon, she on his lap with her feet on the windshield. Cute toes. Her legs were smooth, waxed not shaven.

Holly said, ‘You like sex, don’t you.’

‘Some people like tennis.’

‘When are you getting married?’

‘July. In London.’

‘We’ve got a few months then.’

‘I thought your men only lasted a few weeks.’

‘I’ve got a proper boyfriend now. He’s a civilian, American, advertising exec in Singapore. He’s twenty years older than me, married till his wife ran off. He’s got a little boy. Really sweet. You could drive me down at weekends. When you visit Lisa.’


‘You fuck Lisa, I fuck Ricky, all weekend. And each other on the way down.’

‘And back.’

Holly blew a smoke-ring round the moon. ‘I like you Harry. You’re like me, a free spirit.’

The cicadas stopped shrilling. The jungle fell silent, dark, green, expectant. Harry had a strange deep feeling inside. He wanted to say something to her, something big, something life-changing. The moon hung still, waiting in a long, long moment, listening, listening for words that never came.


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

#fullmoon #mustang #malaysia #trainingarea


#prince #harry #Cadillac #MoysesStevensFlowers

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Love To Die For 4/27 MY TRUSTY PRINCE

Harry called the public phone at the school until Dawn told him he could not: people were whispering, and he must wait for her to call. And she did. But after one of their meetings he went too far: a Moyses Stevens vanload of flowers rolls up at a girls school the teachers ask questions, even if the anonymous gift is for a princess.

When she called his office number he could tell she was being listened to.

‘Can you get a message to my uncle,’ she said and he loved the breathlessness of her voice, ‘to thank him for the flowers and arrange for me to be collected on Saturday.’

 Harry pulled up at the door of the school in his gleaming black Cadillac and smart black suit and cap and gloves. A sensibly tweeded woman watched from the colonnaded porch as Dawn, face hidden in the hood of her cloak, hurried out. He held open the back door, scrupulously avoiding looking at her, and walked round the rear of the car, a perfect invisible chauffeur.

‘Where to, m’lady?’ he said, anxious, trying to smile as he adjusted the inside mirror to see her.

‘Harry, I need to talk with you.’ Her voice trembled. This did not sound good. He found their place in the woods, parked.  Opening her door he saw she was trying not to cry.

‘What’s wrong?’ He was filled with apprehension. She shook her head, walked in front of him, russet mantle clad, kicking fallen leaves. It was the best of fall days, crisp and bright. At the edge of the river at last she turned, white faced, the sparkle gone from her eyes. Her hands clutched at her cloak, bunching the material into knots as tight as those in his belly.

‘I can’t go on with this,’ she wept. ‘I want you too much. I want to take stupid risks. You want me too much. You do take stupid risks.’  The sword rose, hovering. ‘We both know it cannot be.’

Breath went out of his lungs. His heart shrank as if dosed with poisoned ice. He knew, but denied, it must happen someday. He stayed silent. He couldn’t argue, nor even protest. Two swans floated by. A couple. He watched them, sensing her watching him, waiting his reaction.

‘I’ll do what you say, Princess,’ he said. She hated him calling her that, like he hated her calling him Hudson, which she did, occasionally, to tease.

‘Harry, I love you, I love you, I love you so much, but it’s no good. It’s just too dangerous.’

‘Why now, Dawn? Why not in a while, when you go back. We can be careful till then.’ He couldn’t help it.

‘My uncle.’

‘Does he suspect? He’s never said anything.’

She grabbed him and flung her arms so tight round his neck he could have choked.

‘Wake up, Harry. Just wake up. I might be a kid but d’you think I don’t know what goes on?’

He felt a sickness dawn inside him, and turned away from her.

‘Tell me,’ he said, fists clenching

Her voice came, faltering, from behind. ‘He tried to fool around with me at home. Nothing really bad but I knew. I knew the way he looked at me. But I also knew he wouldn’t do anything really bad to me because if it was found out on my wedding night I’d have to tell. And I would. If they were going to kill me they could kill him too.’ Speaking faster. ‘I could probably hide it, there’s lots of ways, my old nurse will give me a tube of sheep’s blood. But if my husband got suspicious and questioned me I don’t know long I could keep lying or denying. So he got you to do it.’ The words tumbled out through gulps of breath. ‘I’ve thought about this so much it’s done my head in. You must have realized, Harry. I did, I realized, as soon as you said about the blue movie. But I wanted to do it, I wanted to do it with you. I just didn’t care. And I didn’t even think that now it’s you they’d get.’

He had set me up, my trusty Prince, Harry thought bitterly. He faced her now, face ashen. ‘What happened? That night? When he got back to the hotel?’

‘Tell me you knew what was going on,’ she sobbed.

Harry pushed her away, shouted, ‘What happened, Dawn?’

‘You know what happened,’ her hands tore at her cloak, ‘what was supposed to happen. What he planned. What you set up…


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

#prince #harry #Cadillac #MoysesStevensFlowers

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Hello God It’s Sunday

And here I am wondering who you are.  I sat before my shrine, a bronze statue of Lord Shiva who embodies and is embodied by Shakti, thinking of Yeshua and Shekinah, contemplating Krishna and Rana, and beneath, behind, above, below and within, Atman, Great Spirit, manifest in all.

If I know who you are, do I know what you want?  Should I be worshipping on Thursday?  Friday?  Saturday?  plus, minus, or instead of Today?  Should I worship at all?  Do you care whether or not you are worshipped?  Is worship a need of yours? Are you needy?  Or do I need to worship?  I have been in lands where they worship the Buddha, he who said there is not God but that within each one of us.  And in those lands they build temples and calve statues of gold to him.

Well, God, I’m going to have lunch now, and then watch some football on the telly.  I am thankful for this little conversation that leaves me knowing no more than I knew but, at least, knowing that.

Should I put in some tags?  Why not!  #god #shiva #Shakti #greatspirit

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One afternoon, lying in a tub of fantasy, thinking of Dawn, a red rose landed in Harry’s water, and there she stood, laughing in the doorway, a vision in ivory wrap. Linda had let her in.

Linda ran the office, joining Harry at the start of each day for morning prayers, as they called their ritual of watching each other before looking at the day’s reservations, before he started with Dawn. Who, Linda confided, she fancied like crazy but never got the vibe in return. She lived with Sally, who Harry also saw a little of from time to time and a lot of at other times when at a loose end and needing stiffening up. Not anymore. Fidelity, a novel concept, still held novelty’s appeal.

He jumped out the tub splashing water over the floor and made wet naked love with Dawn up against the sunflower-patterned wall. He unwrapped her Furstenburg to expose frothy cream french panties, lacy cream bra and… white stockings and garter belt!

‘Wow,’ he said.

‘For you,’ she said.

‘Wouldn’t fit,’ he panted, undoing the bra. ‘Where d’you get them?’


‘How did you know…’ he said, sliding down the panties.

‘Victoria. She knows…’

‘Yeah, all our secrets…?’ his voice muffled, tasting her juice.

‘Aah. Seems to work, hey?’

‘Aah. You bet!’ standing up, thrusting inside her. ‘You gonna wear them under the burka?’

‘Not funny, Harry. Oooh, go on, harder.’

‘Yes, ah yes, yes, OK, enough small talk…how long you up for?’

‘Oh, yes, Harry, do that again. I came with Victoria. Ah, Ah, Ahhhhh. She got her parents to write a note. Oh, that feels so good, don’t stop, go on, yes, yes. We’re going back tomorrow. How long you up for?’ Wicked giggle.

‘Aaaah, any minute now…didn’t they want a note from yours?’

‘I faked one. And hinted at a new Science Block. Come Harry, now!’

‘Hurray for new scientists…aaaaaaaaaaaaah!’

 That night an old school friend of Harry’s dropped by: she would not believe he was a Member of Parliament. He could believe she was a princess. He invited them both to dinner at the Commons but Harry went alone: Dawn was paranoid about being seen. And that was how it was. No movies, well, not in theaters, no restaurants, in fact no public places together without floppy hat and sunglasses, everything secretive, and always on the lookout…



*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

#Furstenburg #victoriasecret #Fenwicks #parliament

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Love To Die For: Story 2 of 27 – STATUE IN WHITE

Harry was in love.  Dawn’s body, her being, the whole idea of her obsessed him.  When he drove her to the school next day she lay along the bench seat, her head in his lap. She had seemed subdued when he collected her, waiting in the hotel lobby with her luggage, and spoke little on the journey.  He recited Francis Thompson, the lines resounding with her spirit, in his heart.

‘Leave thy father, leave thy mother, leave thy brother

Leave the black tents of thy tribe apart

What need hast thou of thy tribe’s black tents?

Thou hast the red pavilion of my heart.’

The school was set in woodlands. Before delivering her Harry drove the surrounding roads, found a place to park.  They wandered the woods, down to the river and watched the swans.  Her mood lightened.  He said he wanted to see her again.  He could drive down in one of the less conspicuous cars.  He left with his business card in her purse and drove back to London, to think about her and read her Holy Book, learn about their God of mercy and compassion.

In stolen moments they talked, made love, and talked again.  He had lived in her land and knew their ways.  Talk was the way they passed their days, sharing the tales their grandfathers told of the deeds of their forefathers’ fathers.  Dawn was keen to improve her knowledge of the English she spoke so naturally.  She had been in school at International College in Beirut until the civil war prompted transfer to the States.

‘Why not London?’

‘Bombs.  My father said it didn’t make sense swapping Kalashnikov for Semtex.  And IC has Ivy League connections so it was easy to get me in.’

‘You know about Kalashnikovs? Semtex?’

‘Man, I know the difference between the sound of an AK47 and the American one, the AR-18.  The PLO gets them from the IRA in exchange for hashish they grow in the hills.’  The laugh had gone from her voice.

‘How in hell d’you know that?’

‘Beirut. You need to know who’s shooting who in the street.  You get to know everything.’  In this insight into the life of a child in war he sensed an underlying tension.  Wanting to lighten up he said, ‘Sounds like the song.’

‘Oh-my-God!  I love that song!  It’s like he was there…’

‘The complete anti-hero…’

Dawn sang ‘And there stood I, a statue in white…’

‘Outside the blazing casino…did you?’

‘No, I was too young.’

They fell silent, side by side on a thick red blanket under the trees, leaves just starting to turn, swans turning on the river below less real than Peter Sarstedt’s word-pictures turning through their minds.  She rolled over and pillowed her head on his chest.  Could she know how that opened his heart?  She stroked his hair.

‘Enough past,’ she murmured, ‘enough of being scared most of the time, me and my kid brother.  Here am I, beneath the bough…’

‘A book of verse, a pitcher of wine, and thou…’

‘Beside me in the wilderness…’

‘Actually I prefer Le Galliene,’ Harry said. ‘Would’st thou forget a woman?  Drink red wine!  Would’st thou remember her?  Drink red wine!  Are your eyes burning just to see her face?  Then drown them in a mirror of red wine!’

‘Strange,’ she mused, ‘considering we’re not supposed to drink alcohol.’

‘There’s a lot we’re not supposed to do, in any law or language.’

‘Teach me some Anglo-Saxon, Harry.’

‘There’s a village in Dorset called Shitterton.’

‘No shit! Is this a limerick?  D’you have a Wankerton?’

‘Working at it.  They were normal expressions, like fuck and cunt.’

‘What changed them from normal?’

‘Normans.  Now they’re just for cursing and sex.’

‘People curse having sex?’

‘Try it.’

‘Fuck me, Harry.’  Giggling.  Great pupil.  They dove under the blanket.


*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

#CaptainHarry #Kalashnikov #semtex

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LOVE TO DIE FOR – Story 1 of 27

Sun glinted on steel, head thudded on sand, too far to hear.  Casing the black Ross Stepsun 12×50 binos, lenses shaded by leather hood, he started the long crawl backwards, elbow by elbow inching down the reverse slope, brushing his trail from the sandy ground with a horsehair whisk, souvenir of another campaign, another continent.

What memento would he take from this?  Brain-seared images: twisted features of a screaming girl dragged into his field of vision, face naked, body shrouded in torn black abaya that did nothing to shield tender flesh from a hail of stones until, hands clutching head, she dropped?  Or the helpless watching man in white thobe and ghutra, arms pinioned and fear-filled face gripped so he could not turn away?  Until  forced to kneel, ghutra lifted to bare his neck.  The curved blade rose, glittered, hovering a moment like a bird of prey sighting its target, then swooped: a crescent of light.  They were not the first to die for love.  Nor the last.

Sweat dripping into sand-colored dust, Lieutenant West reached the abandoned well.  He mopped his face with green-and-brown camouflage scarf, leaned over the circular wall of stone grooved from generations of rope lifting camel-hide buckets, and retrieved his water-bag and radio.  After moistening cracked lips and parched tongue he tuned in to Khormaksar Control, confirming his own position and the location, already marked by circling hawks, of the village where, just before the incident of what he guessed was a terminal case of domestic violence, he had spotted his quarry, the dissident leader Abu Haddad and his followers loading kneeling camels with Soviet landmines.

Harry West took shelter in the well, shelter from a desert sun, shelter from the rising din of war.


Rarely did his mind return to that harsh land until, what seemed a lifetime later, an identical incident of terminal domestic violence, witnessed in grainy images around the world, resulted in a decree that their women could travel abroad only if accompanied by a close male relative: father, brother, husband or son.

Waiting for a client making her last flight before the ban came into effect, ex-Captain West stood in Arrivals at Heathrow, holding a name-card, and wondering what she would be like.  Her uncle had given him no more information than flight number, the name she traveled by, and that the family were transferring her to a girls-only boarding school in the English countryside.  New York, he said, was getting too liberal.

Uncle, a minor prince with a major appetite, spent most of his time wheeling and dealing in London: engineers and lawyers by day, dancing girls by night:  Omar Khayyam in Regent Street, Cashlite in St James’s, Pars Persian in Earls Court.

With a brief ‘Get a movie set up for later,’ the Prince set off with one of the hotel drivers on a round of contract hustling while Harry headed for Heathrow by way of Clapham, where a garage-operator ran a sideline: a projector-hire business with a stock of films to the taste of princes.

Trolleys piled with Gucci and Louis Vuitton rolled by as First started to come through.  Professional anxiety pervaded the Terminal 2 chauffeur group: anxiety for clients to be alert for name-boards, not wander past to be hustled by some random pirate who would charge them half and think he was ripping them off.

Harry saw her.

‘Jee-zus,’ he heard from a Hertz driver, ‘just look at that.’

These many years gone by he sees her now as clearly as he saw her then, walking with thoroughbred grace through the concourse of stares and lip-licking tongues.

She comes closer.  His body goes hot inside the charcoal suit, his neck fills the collar of his white shirt, and his throat dries up.

She stops in front of him, looks up at the placard.  Can she hear his heart?

‘Hi.  Me.’

Face and body of a young Liz Taylor, rock-chick hair.  Sparkling eyes black as jet.  Honey-colored skin, generous lips.  A smile to make deserts bloom, please God…fleeting thoughts tumble round his brain.  If he lost his head he could lose his job.  And his head for real.  She could be stoned to death when, if, they got her back.

‘Hello-o.  Anybody there?’  She must have been used to the effect she had on men. Laughing sexy voice, soft American accent.

‘Er.  Sorry.  Yes, yes, I’m here to meet you, Princess.  Your uncle …’

Her face darkened slightly.

‘Is where?’

‘Sorry, ma’am. The Prince…’ She shrugged. ‘Cool!’  He took the trolley, led her to the parking lot, opened the back door to the Cadillac.  Not a happy family, then.

‘Can I sit up front?’

‘Of course, ma’am.’  Back in role.

‘Get you, man!   Your name wouldn’t be Hudson?’  Harry’s mind pictured the TV butler, a comparison with His Smugness he really did not appreciate.

‘No.’ stiffly, ‘my name is West, Harry West.’

‘Harry.’ Dazzling him with a grin. ‘I guess you call my uncle Your Excellency?  Your Highness?’

‘He instructed me to call him by his name.’

She giggled, ‘You Brits,’ and turned her voice to posh English, ‘So, Harry, I instruct you to call me Dawn.’

He melted, held the door.  She sat, swung her legs in.  Dark flowered skirt, inch of white lace, dark pantyhose, patent shoes.  An Arabian Sloane.

He didn’t call her anything for a while.  He knew many of her people: princes, princesses, bodyguards, slaves, businessmen, but had never been alone with a young westernized girl.

She pushed the radio button.  Kenny Everett crooned, ‘Just cram your finger in the phone,’ plugged a product and played Dancing Queen.

‘Yuk! Abba.’

He kept quiet.  He liked them.  Delivering takeout to the Montcalm he got told off by Agnethe for bringing the wrong flavors.  ‘Don’t mind her,’ said Benny, ‘she’s missing her kids.’

Dawn played push-button and complained of the lack of music stations.  Harry made listening noises as they joined the traffic into Central London.  He felt excited she was there, beside him.

Harry loved his Cadillac.  It had space in back to lie full length on the floor, where he would provide full limousine service to the Prince’s girls either after their duty done, or warm-up beforehand.  But they were working girls and the one beside him now was altogether a different story.  Life in the front seat, mostly solitary, had its moments: Ingrid, Grace, legends, sitting behind but talking with him, seeming interested.  And other conversations, overheard.  Last week, tennis stars:  ‘What happened in the restaurant?  Where d’you go?’  American, Boston.

‘Out back.  In a closet upright we did it.’ European, guttural.

‘Howja know she would?  Maybe she just wanted your autograph.’

‘She held my look that little bit too long.  Autograph she did not ask.’

‘Did she say anything?’

‘No.  We made sex in silence.’

‘Like, was she on the pill?  Did you use anything?’  No response.  Boston went on, ‘Maybe she did get your autograph.  Maybe she’ll look you up some day.’

‘Ach, it was too quick for that.’

It was dark when they reached the hotel.  The concierge called the suite. ‘The Prince has been delayed, Harry. He will return later.’

‘Thanks, George.  Can you call up?’

‘Certainly.’  The understanding between servants, unspoken and crafty.

Dawn came out of her room, hair wet.  She’d changed into an electric-blue dress, tight lace-up front showing the upper swell of her breasts.

‘Like it?’ She twirled.  Yes, Harry thought, I do understand her family’s concern about the liberal ways of the west.  They’d have been more concerned about the libertine ways of ex-Captain West.  But had he paused to think how it would end, would he have begun?  Or was it written? He wondered how hard she found returning home for vacations.  How did she adapt to a culture where woman was ‘lower than a lame camel’?  Or was he just part of the furniture here anyway, a safe reliable retainer she could show off to.

‘Wow,’ he said carefully.  She pulled a face.

‘You don’t like it.  I’ll change.’  Her voice went croaky.

‘No, I do like it.  I really do.  It’s beautiful.’  To hell with it, he thought, to hell with the Prince, to hell with me. He looked straight into her eyes. ‘I like it, Dawn.  It is beautiful.’

Should he go on?  Dare he?  She stood one hand on the back of a brocade armchair; she stood very still and looked at him a long time.  He felt he could have touched that silence.  ‘And I think you are beautiful.’  His heart was thudding.  He held her gaze.  He was almost sure he hadn’t offended her, but only almost.  If he had, and if she told her uncle, he could be more than fired.  There were others like him who could get these very rich men anything they wanted at very short notice.

He saw her breath quicken, heard her voice thicken.

‘Where is my uncle?  When will he come?’

He felt a lurch in the gut.

‘Later.  I don’t know.  He’s been delayed.  I have to set up a movie for him.’

‘What kind of movie?’

‘I haven’t seen it.’

She reddened.  ‘I know what kind of movies my uncle and his friends watch.’

‘Have you seen any?’

‘No…’ serious face turned bright with mischief, ‘Hey, shall we?  Or will you get in trouble?’

He shrugged, as if it didn’t matter. ‘If I get in trouble he’ll just get another driver for you.  Anyway George will call up when he comes.’

‘I don’t want to get you in trouble.’

‘I’m in trouble already, Dawn.’ He kept his eyes on hers.  ‘Dead trouble.’

Face serious again, she came round the chair and sat, smoothing the dress beneath her.

‘I’m sixteen.  I’ll probably have to get married next year.  I’ll be locked away to make babies.  I don’t resent it.  It is written.  But first I want to have some fun.’

They both knew what her life would be, hand rocking cradle.

In a cold sweat he set up screen and projector, slippery fingers threading the film through little wheels and spools. He went to the door, hung out the Do Not Disturb sign, and locked it.

They sat side by side on the carpet.  He put his arm round her shoulders.  Dawn leaned her head back, wet black hair cool against his cheek.  The movie ran.  He felt her tense, then relax, as they watched a group of hippies making out in a trailer.  She whispered, ‘I’ve never done it before.’

That one word, before, told Harry what he was aching to know.

‘Do you want to do it now?’

*Yes, there’s more to this story, so read on with a click here!

Extract from a Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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Love To Die For – VALENTINE SPECIAL – The Erotic Adventures of Captain Harry West



From risking death to love a virgin Princess, through sex on the polo field, dance floor, boardroom, beach and freeway, to orgies made in Chelsea, these twenty seven tantalizing stories track the erotic adventures of a man who loves sex as much as he loves war.  Harry West lives for the fun of the fight and Fun with a K, from the rooftops of Wanchai to the debs of the King’s Road, pale lilies and dusky maidens.  Addicted to the taste of forbidden fruit, he savors the passion of contact, the moment of climax, the smell of conquest in and out of bed.  Until the moment his life, his career, flashes before his eyes as if he were a drowning man.

Men and women like Harry and Holly, Alice and Charlie, know what they want and go for it, spurring ahead  through triumph and disaster, laughing their way to climax after climax.  Come inside and join the Fun!

LK of London: Far more interesting than Fifty Shades, written by a Tantra teacher, and set in some fascinating places. Full of sex …

Mrs GM of Ireland: A wonderful piece of writing…intriguing, mind-expanding (especially the bit with the mother/daughter in Mother Love), cheeky, and witty, as well as the thrill of teenage kicks…. And Love to Die For was gripping: love, death, heartache, hope, escape….a real thriller!

GT London: This is quite an unconventional book of modern erotic tales, written by a Taoist Master in a style that is graceful, sensitive, and baroque enough to appeal to a woman as well.

Miss AA: Mr North has produced an erotic masterpiece, sensual, exciting and elegant, leaving chick lit and mummy porn fading into yesterday.

Come Inside and join the Fun with a click here!

STARTING NEXT WEEK: A Story a Week for 27 Weeks, so come back soon – or take the short cut and buy them now with a click!

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