William Baxter

The couple descended the stairs, Yvonne first with Rick behind her, his hand possessively on her shoulder. Business looked good that night. A large crowd. Laughter. Some patrons looked up to watch the elegant pair come down the staircase. Employees would smile and nod, or wave, when the nightclub owner passed.

Behind the bar was Sascha, a young wild man from Russia, serving drinks in his usual jerky, spastic fashion. The 'white' Russian (people opposed to the 'reds') was the best bartender Rick had ever seen. He could serve three drinks in the time it took most to serve one. When Rick and Yvonne approached the bar, Sascha called out, "Hello, Boss, how are you?" Then grinning at Yvonne, with his hands still rapidly moving fixing two drinks, he winked and said, "Hello, Yvonne, click, click. I love you."

She turned her head away, ignoring the mad Russian.

A customer a few places down slid off his stool and approached the Owner. He appeared to be about the same age as Rick, a tad taller, and was wearing a white suit. "Hello, Richard," he said when he drew nearer.

At first the creases in Rick's forehead got deeper as he stared at the man. Then his eyes grew wide and his countenance softened. "Baxter?" he said, "William Baxter?"

"The one and the same," the man replied, extending his hand. There was a sardonic grin on Rick's face when he shook that hand. "How are you! I thought you would be dead my now."

"It's not from lack of trying," he answered. Rick introduced Yvonne, they exchanged pleasantries, and the three of them made some small talk before Baxter said, "Listen, Richard," Baxter's voice was now somber. "Anyplace we could talk?"

Rick scanned the room, his eyes spotting an empty table in a corner, and he told Yvonne to wait for him at the bar. He started to tell Sascha to fix her a drink, but the ever observant Bartender was already mixing what he knew to be her favorite cocktail. When she slid up onto the stool, he put the drink down in front of her with another wink. "Here you go, Yvonne, click, click. I love you."

Walking in front to guide Baxter, Rick led him over to the white linen cloth covered table. He held a hand up, palm outward, to signal the waiter that he did not want to be disturbed.

"You know, Richard," Baxter began, leaning forward on his forearms. He stared into his friend's face for a few seconds before continuing, "It was not a coincidence that I am here tonight." What mirth had been in the nightclub owner's face faded like a match burning out. "I looked you up." Baxter again paused, giving that statement a chance to sink in. "Remember how we and a group of others smuggled guns into Ethiopia?"

"We made a lot of money doing that," Rick answered, reaching inside his tuxedo for his silver cigarette case. "That's how I was able to buy this place."

Baxter craned his neck, looking at the nightclub's interior. It was a large space, complete with a band stand and dance floor, all in a Moorish architecture style. "Very nice," he agreed, nodding his head. "The thing is," he stared down at the table as he scratched on the white linen. "I haven't left the movement."

Rick just stared at the man, but said nothing.

"You know, fighting the fascists," Baxter explained. Rick pressed the latch release on the cigarette case and the spring-loaded lid popped open. He held the case out towards Baxter.

"I am in the British Army now," Baxter selected a cigarette and placed it between his lips. Rick started to light it, but Baxter already had his own lighter out. "On assignment." He took a drag and then exhaled the gray smoke. "My orders are to help supply the Resistance."

"Gun running under the auspices of the Crown," Rick lit up his own cigarette.

"Something like that," Baxter agreed.

"Well you can't use my place as a meeting house," Rick told him. It was not a rebuke, just a statement of fact. "I am through with politics."

"Understood," Baxter replied. "I just wanted to clue you in so that when you do see me out and about... " Rick nodded his head, letting his friend know that he was following what he was saying.

"And if you ever do change your mind and decide to get back in the game," Baxter stood up, "I'll be around."

***** ***** *****

When Baxter stepped out onto the street in front of the night club, he took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt away. Orange embers flew off the tip as the coffin-nail bounced on the cobble stones. Like a miniature fireworks display in the warm desert night. A woman, dressed in a long abaya robe with a hijab around her head and neck approached him. In broken English she asked, "Want good time?"

Baxter stared down into her upturned face. The light of the quarter moon allowed him to make out her features. Her olive skin was without blemish. Large brown eyes looked up at him over high cheek bones. Beneath her aquiline nose was a wide, full mouth. She seemed to be in her twenties.

"How much?" he asked, holding up his right hand and rubbing his thumb and forefinger together in the universal sign for money. She held up a number of fingers that was reasonable, so reaching into the inside pocket of his coat, he pulled his wallet out far enough for her to see it while making a sweeping gesture with his left hand to try to indicate that he would follow her. Turning to her right, she took a couple of steps up the street, looking back once over her shoulder to see if he was following.

He was. The woman continued for a few more yards, then stepped into an alley. She stood there inside the narrow passage between two buildings, waiting for him. When he appeared, she went a little further into the alley then ducked into a doorway. Baxter followed her inside. She stood there facing him, her face and form barely visible within the shadows. Again he took out his wallet, all the way this time, and extracted the agreed upon bills. Once she had accepted the money, Baxter touched that full lower lip of hers. She had a mouth just made for cock-sucking. Next, he moved his hand to her shoulder, applying a slight downward pressure. The woman leaned to her side from the waist, peering around Baxter. He assumed she was double-checking to make sure they were alone.

Slowly she lowered herself to a squatting position and Baxter unbuttoned his coat, pushing it open, after which he dropped his pants and shoved his boxer shorts down. Once more she looked past him to make sure the coast was still clear before returning her attention to her assignment. Her right hand lifted the flaccid organ, curling her soft fingers around it and beginning to tug on it. Her left hand cupped his balls, hoisting them upwards a bit. As the cock began to grow within her hand, she leaned forward to plant a small kiss on the tip. A few strokes later, when it had increased in size considerably, she kissed the side of the shaft several times before licking it. After she had slid her tongue along both sides of the now fully developed hard-on, she parted her lips. Wide. On final check behind him, and then she engulfed the wide head with her mouth. Her hand slid up and down his shaft, squeezing into it, as she applied a suction to the tip. This went on for some time, her tongue swirling around the glans, before she moved her head forward, taking him further into her mouth. The woman who was draped from head to foot in a loose, black robe-like garment started rocking back and forth. Both her hand and mouth slid along the wet shaft, the saliva forming inside her mouth making it wetter and wetter.

Baxter pushed his unbutton coat further back, placing his hands on his hips and half-closing his eyes. After a few more minutes of standing there hidden in the shadows of the recessed doorway while the woman squatting in front of him sucked him off, Baxter started to thrust his hips. Slowly at first, but gradually growing faster. Opening his eyes and looking down, all he could see was the dark movement of the woman's hijab covered head moving back and forth. Wet, slurping noises fill the confined space. Getting closer to his ejaculation, Baxter moved his hands from his waist to her head.

The woman shifted her position slightly, redistributing her weight, as she continued to work the shaft, suck the head, and fondle his balls. He started breathing harder, more rapidly, as he teetered on the edge. With a loud groan he slipped over that edge. Quickly he moved his hands to the back of her head as he began shooting out his load. She let out a muffled cry of surprise and tried to pull away, but he held her securely in place. Her hands left his cock and balls to push him off her, but to no avail. He just stood there with his feet spread apart, leaning over her, a firm grip on her head as he pumped out more and more of his sperm. No matter how much she struggled, she was unable to escape.

Exhaling with a long, drawn out gasp, Baxter snapped to an upright position and jerked his hands away. She tumbled over to land on her hands and knees, gagging and coughing as she spat out his cum. He staggered backwards, almost falling. He cried out a startled gasp and his eyes opened wide. A twelve inch long stiletto slid between two ribs in his back and pierced his heart. He was dead before his body hit the ground.

"What took you so long, Hashed?" the woman on all fours snarled in Arabic as she turned her head to look at a robed man wiping off the blade.

"I wanted to make sure you were in the clear, Nadia" he answered in the same language, returning the weapon to its scabbard under his long, flowing bisht.

She spat again. "You just wanted my mouth defiled!" she accused him. "And you didn't care where the seed came from."

"No, seriously," he took a step towards her to help her to her feet, but she had already succeeded in standing up on her own. "If he and I had scuffled, you might have been hurt."

"That would have been better than having my mouth desecrated by infidel seed!" She slammed her forearm and hand into his chest, pushing him away as she headed for the exit. "You are a pig, Hashed!" Her abaya billowed out around her as she hurried away. "A son of a pig!" Pausing on the street, she spun around to yell, "And he was a son of a pig!"